


The Sostenuto

by seeing_blue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan (Dragon Age), Blood and Gore, Elvhen, F/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Musicians, Revolution, The Fade, fuckers to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 48,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27846430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeing_blue/pseuds/seeing_blue
Summary: Oh, so you want to know her involvement in this whole thing. Well. Even I can’t be sure of the extent, Seeker. Her schemes went far beyond Kirkwall. But she was good. Too good.And no, I didn’t exaggerate what they had. I wish I could. Maybe then, it wouldn’t have destroyed him like it did.
Relationships: Hawke (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s), Male Hawke (Dragon Age)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 61
Kudos: 177





	1. The Dead Come Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sostenuto: a passage of music to be played in a sustained or prolonged manner
> 
> Outskirts of Haven, 9:41 Dragon

When Sister Leliana informed Commander Rutherford that another person had fallen through a secondary rift one day after the Qunari stumbled through the massive rift beneath Breach, he reached a depth of tiredness he had not known since the days after the Kirkwall Chantry exploded and the whole city went to the Void.

Nevertheless, he continued up the mountain with a contingent of remaining soldiers by his side. Soldiers who, a day ago, had known more live people than they did today.

The cold could not mask the stench of burned flesh and the ozone of a Veil scorned. The screech of demons and yells of men fighting for their future beckoned, like saccharine poison in a cup of wine. “On me!” he shouted. The familiar sound of his sword leaving his sheath strengthened his illusion of safety.

Cullen led the charge, carrying the fear in his stomach like an old friend.

The sight that opened before them was one that filled the back of his throat with an acrid tang, but he did not falter. _Would not falter._ Not when these men and women risked their lives to preserve what was left of this world they once knew.

He cut through the first demon as if it were nothing. He would _not_ think of Kinloch Hold. The sickly sheen of the Breach looming above them reflected off the metal of weapons and armor. Next to him, a soldier went down as a spindly demon launched on top of her. It bowed its head back and started cracking its disjointed call into the broken sky. The pulse of its terror twisted Cullen’s veins, but he thrust his sword into the demon and cut off its head for good measure.

“Don’t let those things scream!” he commanded, unsure if his voice would carry over the chaos of battle.

Wildly, he searched for the person who fell from the rift. The details of their appearance were vague: a woman, most likely, and either human or elven. But the onslaught of demons bashed and cracked at Cullen’s shield every waking moment, and if not for the soldiers, he would have been overwhelmed.

Cullen barely had any time to turn around and see a—a _creature_ barrel itself into his exposed side. The suddenness of it gave him no time to react, but the sheer force behind the impact sent him careening out of the way and onto to the ground, head cracking against the snow-covered rock.

The talons of a shade rang when they collided with metal, which glinted green beneath the Breach and above where Cullen had fallen. The sword that blocked the demon’s potentially fatal blow cleaved across its chest in a moment after. The creature shrieked and dissipated into foul, miasmic mist.

Through the green glare of the Breach and his helmet’s visor, Cullen saw the wielder of the sword, the person who saved his life.

And oh, _Maker._

He scrambled upright, a wordless shout bursting inside his lungs. Cullen brandished his sword at the enemy. The fear in his stomach had turned from a friend to a fire, burning through muscle, through bone.

Cullen couldn’t breathe. She—she—she—

“That—that is no woman!” he shouted. His own words reverberated in the helmet, though he hardly recognized whom it belonged to. “That is a demon in disguise! Dispose of her!”

“Well, hello to you, too,” the demon replied in her voice, her familiar voice, her _false voice._ It stabbed into Cullen’s memory. How did it sound so nonchalant? So rich? “I was home, and I got pulled back into this place.” Her low tone came like the sound of battle, thunderous and terrible. _“Unfortunately.”_

A soldier following Cullen’s orders went to cut her throat, but in a burst of speed and strength the dead woman used to possess, she dodged the blade, and she regarded both the soldier and Cullen like they inconvenienced her.

The demon’s brown-skinned arms were covered with ichor form her own kind, but she bore no claws. Her teeth, white and straight, did not come into pointed fangs.

And her eyes, her eyes were the same, somehow—that ethereal blue, like periwinkle flowers, which used to grow at the base of the farm posts in Honnleath.

They held such intimidating command, though grief layered the irises.

“Now is not the _time,”_ the demon spoke, raising the stolen sword.

A pulse from the Breach sent an unnatural wind pushing down across the valley. It tousled her messy gray hair, but her eyes gleamed with the anticipation of a fight. From the rift the demon herself had crawled through came a fresh wave of her ilk, screeching and wailing and gnashing. She threw herself into the onslaught with Cullen close behind. He would have to deal with her after they rid the waking world of this foulness.

The demon tore through a shade that attempted to rake its claws across her back, expertly defending herself at the last moment with fluid precision. She moved through the wave of enemies like a master swordsman, graceful but brutal, efficient and swift.

He thought her too gentle to face the horrors of the world, too compassionate and lovely and musical to be vicious.

But at the end of it all, when the air reeked with seawater and foul lyrium and layers of magic, he realized how ignorant he had been. For she had seen the horrors already, and her gentleness was but a ploy to play a great game that left her enemies unassuming until she struck.

And yet, despite all she could do, all she was, she…

One of the last terror demons shrieked into the torn sky. She pulled her sword out from its chest, and before it could fall to the ground and crumble, she had turned away to wipe ichor off her face with the back of an arm. The dark substance smeared across her cheekbone and into her hair.

She plunged the sword into the ground, but a hand lingered on the hilt. The imposter only pretended to lower her defenses. Soldiers now edged her boundaries. Blood sat in Cullen’s mouth.

“Reveal yourself, demon!” he demanded, nearing her. Sparks of the Veil bounced around his feet, and upon closer examination, Cullen saw them spark off _her._ A foul charade, indeed. She had been no mage in life. This could not have possibly been the woman he knew a lifetime ago.

Then she grinned at him, her wide-mouthed smile strikingly the same. It held no warmth. Cullen had received that kind of smile before. It was the wind before a hurricane.

“Do we have to do this?” she inquired, head tilting a fraction. The ichor had become a savage mask. Any richness had disappeared from her voice. In another second, she’d twist and transform, and Cullen would be proven _right._ “I’m tired, and I don’t have the patience to listen to your templar ideologies.”

“Enough of this talk,” he spat. Cullen raised his sword and shield. “Whatever malicious life you have tried to create ends now.”

He charged her. The demon pulled the sword back out of the cold earth and lunged to meet him on bare feet. When the force of her weapon hit his, it sent fissures of ringing pain throughout his fingers. He blocked, blocked, swerved, struck, blocked—

Between the blows, the demon said rather sadly, “I only went home, Cullen.”

A shield bash sent the demon stumbling, and she dropped her sword. However, she spun on her heels in time to avoid Cullen’s sword sinking through her body. “Then let me return you to your home,” he spat.

Stars burst in his vision when the demon punched him so hard that his helmet went flying. Cullen groaned, too stunned to stop her from tackling him to the ground. It all should have been rather funny; she was a light thing, and she had not grown her form to match his size. She intended to kill him, though, and he would not allow that to happen.

Cullen wildly swung his gauntleted fist in hopes that it’d connect somewhere with her body. It cracked against her skull. She hissed in pain, grip lessening. He took the opportunity to roll over on top of her to eliminate escape. An arm rested over her chest, slowly pushing the air out with the rest of his body weight. The demon squirmed, but she did not do it for long. Eventually, she let her head thump against the rock. She stared up at him, breaths wheezing from the pressure. The light of the Breach shone in her dusty blue eyes.

“Happy, now?” she whispered. A smirk crawled up the corner of her lip. “Go on. Kill me. It will be ripe with irony.”

Now that Cullen’s head had cleared somewhat, he noted the sticky crimson tingeing both her nostrils. Some ran down her scalp. Dark red distinguished itself from the ichor that stained her slate gray hair. She did not break eye contact. She would not let him, either. It had always been a tactic of hers, and it always pinned Cullen like an insect to wood.

Cold logic seeped through the heat of fight and fear. She did not relent, ever serious, ever controlled.

Cullen pulled back. No, no, it wasn’t _possible._ She was…she was dead. Dead. He saw, _he saw…_

He saw her laughing in the broad daylight, kind and beautiful. The smell of the coast wrapped around her, and she fixed him with that penetrating gaze to say, _“You are more than you think yourself to be.”_

He saw her performing, voice ringing from the chapel of the Circle. He could not have known her schemes, that her voice was not used simply to raise the spirits of those trapped within its walls.

He saw her _incinerated—_

As soon as she felt the weight lift off her, she loosened an arm and upper-cutted Cullen with a bony fist he remembered all too well. Immediately, he returned with a punch square in her face. The force was enough to send her periwinkle eyes lolling into the back of her head.

Cullen staggered upright. He wiped the fresh trail of blood trickling from his lower lip. Damn upper-cut. Damn _her._

“Commander?” a soldier tentatively questioned. “What should we do?”

He glanced up at the Breach for a moment while gathered his breath, hoping that the terrible mark somehow had the answers. Out all the things that could have happened after the blasted hole tore open the blasted sky, why this? Maker, why this?

After spitting out more blood, Cullen picked up his sword and sheathed it. His eyes did not leave the unconscious body before him. She donned odd clothes, but it was not so far off from the attire she used to wear. The woman had no shoes, and she was in nothing more than what looked to be a black slip. Her pointed ears were pierced with small golden bars on the lobes. Demon ichor spattered across her chest and neck, almost like freckles.

As if the world Cullen once knew had not already been split open, the sight of her gouged it even more. He could not keep hold of anything, and soon, it slipped from his fingers entirely.

“Someone find Varric bloody Tethras,” Cullen said. The words filled his mouth with a kind of sourness he had not tasted before. “Tell him Singer is alive.”


	2. Business Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon

“Messere Tethras,” Norah called, half-stepping into his suite with a bobbed curtsy, “there is someone who wishes to speak with you.”

“If it’s the Coterie, Merchant’s Guild, or any shifty person asking about money owed or money borrowed, send them away,” Varric replied. The quill’s feathers swayed with the writing he jotted down on the parchment.

 _There are still pockets of darkspawn where you’re traveling through,_ the letter read, _so please stay safe. Give your husband my regards and tell him to have a drink in my honor._

“Uh, it is none of them,” Norah hesitantly continued, edging farther into the room. “It’s an elf, serah, and she said she didn’t have an appointment but thought you’d see her anyway.”

“Really. Huh.” Varric set the quill in the inkpot and leaned back in his chair. “Sounds brazen.”

“Very polite, but yes, she was firm. Shall I send her away?”

“No, no. She came this far. I’m a little curious about what she wants from my spectacular self. Send her in.”

“Of course.”

Varric waited for Norah to return with the elf. When she came back, she gestured for a gentle frame to step into his chambers. Taller than most elves, she wore a pretty kind of tunic cut into a strange fashion Varric had never seen before. The fabric was a pale summer blue, and it snugly fit to her torso and shoulders. The bottom of the tunic, however, flared out in a short trim at the bottom. Opalescent buttons made from shells lined the front of the tunic. The elf’s charcoal trousers were slim as well, but not Dalish-slim. They bunched up a tad around the ankles to show off simple black slippers.

Atop the elf’s head was a tame, wide-rimmed white hat with pink fabric wrapped along the base.

Alright. Not what he was expecting, but alright. From the look on Norah’s face, she had the same initial reaction.

“Good afternoon,” the elf chimed, lifting her chin enough to see from under the rim of the hat. Even her voice was something Varric didn’t prepare himself for; she had a rich, reverberating lilt that was half a tune away from becoming a melody. “Varric Tethras?”

“That’s me,” he said, standing up to greet the lady properly. She let him take her hand, but when he went to press a quick kiss to it, she simply gave his fingers a squeeze and disconnected their touch. Interesting. He peered up at her with a smirk. “Now, I hear you’ve been asking around for me. What can I do for you, serah…?”

The lady did not give her name. Her eyes, which were a similar striking shade of the tunic she had on, took in Varric’s humble residence with casual meticulousness. “I am interested in pursuing a venture which I believe I would be quite successful in,” she replied. The lady brushed past Varric and removed her hat. It revealed well-kept, short gray hair sculpted back in a clean coif. “I heard you are a dwarf who is always looking for business opportunities.”

“I am,” he drawled, trailing after her. The elf held herself like some noblewoman: shoulders upright and gaze direct. None of that meekness many elves who served nobles bore. “Seems you already know a lot about me. I’m flattered.”

“Mm. Yes. I need someone who is…amenable to a non-human.”

“Hey, who’s to say I’m amenable? I can be very terrible, you know.”

“You saved a young half-elf mage from slavers—and kept him from the Circle. That sounds amenable to me.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. Out of all the drifting, exaggerated, and highly unsound tales throughout Kirkwall, she’d choose that one. Telling.

“Hey, now, that was all Hawke. I just tagged along for the ride.”

The lady glanced over her shoulder at Varric and gave him a faint smile. “Whatever you say.”

She walked over to the chair on the opposite side of Varric’s desk and placed a hand on the back. Her fingers lightly tapped against the worn knobbed wood.

Keeping a sharp eye on her, Varric wandered over to his side of the desk and took a seat. “Since you’re familiar with _my_ life, I have to know at least _something_ about you in return before I make any decisions about this…business venture. And, just a warning, I’ve heard a lot of people say that same phrase only to present some shit-awful ideas.”

“Well, hopefully mine won’t be,” the woman said. Varric gestured for her to take a seat in the chair she idled by, and she did. Each and every one of her movements was practiced, poised. Varric’s intrigue grew.

Hat settling on her lap, the lady did not look away from Varric as he spoke. “I work for Lady Beaumont in Hightown. She is a seamstress of some notoriety in these parts.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve heard a bit about her,” Varric said with a nod and an easy smile. In actuality, he had heard _a lot_ about Lady Beaumont. She only made some of the best dresses and suits for every poncy noble in town. Normally, a person working for her would say their employer’s name with pride—or at least a bit of deference. This elf, however, said it plainly, like she was on equal level with Lady Beaumont.

This would be good.

“I _also_ heard she was a hard woman to please, let alone work with. So how did you come to find yourself in this position?”

“I have fair sewing and tailoring skills,” the woman replied, her head slightly inclining. “I proved my mettle six months ago.”

“Six months? So did you come from Ferelden?” Varric prodded. “We still have refugees trickling in even now.”

“No. I am not from Ferelden.”

“Nah, of course not. Your accent doesn’t fit. Then where are you from? Somewhere around these parts?”

The thing about silence was that it could be revealing of a character, but it still didn’t literally _tell_ Varric where the woman was from. She took that fact in while she kept her mouth closed. After a couple moments, she said, “I was fortunate enough to find that Lady Beaumont did not see elves as second-class. She treats me as harshly as she does the three other girls, all of whom are human. Her customers, however, do not…have the same view. I cannot work in a place like that forever.”

Varric leaned forward, fingers lacing on the desk. “I hate to break it to you, madam, but it will be a very hard endeavor to find a place where you are treated differently than how you are now.”

“That is why I must make my own.” The elf did not lean forward like Varric, but her gaze intensified, and Varric couldn’t help but smirk. This lady was really something, wasn’t she? He liked it.

“So what are you thinking of, eh? Wanna open up your own shop? I’m guessing this outfit is your making; it’s pretty good, I’ll admit, if a little strange. I don’t keep up on the latest trends, though, so don’t mind me. But in any case, being an elf isn’t going to be easy on your business. It’ll take a lot of hard work.”

“I am aware of what hard work entails,” she said, a touch of coolness to her voice. “And yes, if I did open a dressmaking shop, it would be successful. I could rival the woman I work for.”

The statement should have been chalk-full of arrogance—all the vocabulary was there! And yet, _and yet,_ this lady made it sound like the complete, honest-to-Maker truth.

“But despite my talents, it is not where my best abilities are found.”

“Let me guess—you’re a dancer. No, wait, you like to kill! I can see it in you. It’s always the quiet, reserved ones. You even kinda look like a certain elf I know.”

“If I _were_ to look like the elf you knew,” the lady remarked with such neutrality that it pained Varric, “I would make myself a better wardrobe to reflect my dark and misunderstood character.”

Varric barked a laugh. “So you’ve seen Broody! Doesn’t surprise me too much. He lurks around Hightown.”

She allowed him a smile but didn’t continue to talk about Fenris. Shame. He had a bunch of jokes he wanted to bounce off someone before saying them in front of the group. “Not a killer, no. A singer.”

“A singer? Really?” Varric rubbed his brow. “It’s a lovely idea, serah—and I don’t doubt you have a nice voice, but if you thought becoming your own seamstress was an issue…”

“You would back down so easily?”

“Hey, now, I never said I was backing down—” Varric caught himself. Damnit. The lady kept things so calm and factual that she _almost_ got him. He smirked at her and eased into his chair once more. “Alright, I’ll bite. Let’s say you can sing, and let’s say that I help fund you in your endeavors. Where will you plan to perform? The docks? You might have to compete with a few other lovely ladies who sing in different ways.”

“Not the docks.” Andraste’s tits, she couldn’t be riled, could she? Or, if she was, she hid it spectacularly. “I have my eyes set in Hightown. More specifically, The Foal’s Meadow.”

If Varric had a drink to spit out, he would. “The Foal’s Meadow,” he instead deadpanned. “One of the most artsy, high-end inns this shit-strewn city has to offer. Of course you do. They haven’t hired a new singer in, what, five years? The big thing is instrumental music. Can you play an instrument?”

“The harp,” she said. “But that is not what I want to focus on.”

“No, no, and why would you?” Varric made sure a joking smile accompanied his snark. “Where did you even acquire these…talents? Some love child between a servant and a noble? Taught by spirits in the Fade? Trained by a master in Tevinter—”

“Don’t joke about slavery.”

Varric paused for a moment. Her expression and tone didn’t change, but those dusk blue eyes bore into him unflinchingly.

“Alright, point taken. But you understand how I’m curious! You walk in here, beautiful and mysterious, not only telling me that I should invest in your talents but telling me that you want to get into one of the most elite lounges in Kirkwall.”

“Thank you,” the elf softly smiled, and Varric realized he had blurted out that she’d been beautiful and mysterious. Well, it was true, but he wanted to say it in a much more comfortable setting.

He smiled back with less mirth than before. “Show me what you got, _Singer,_ and I’ll consider it.”

Finally, her smile grew just shy of a grin, making it apparent that she bore a wide but not unattractive mouth. “I thought you’d never ask, Master Tethras,” she said as she stood, setting her hat on his desk. After a moment, she lowly commented, “For a dwarf who likes the sound of his voice so much, you do delay with more important questions, don’t you?”

He slapped a hand to his chest and pretended to be shot. “Beautiful _and_ cruel! I knew you couldn’t be perfect.”

“No, I am not perfect.”

But Maker, her voice was.

All of Varric’s charming guard washed away in sheer shock at the sound of it. The lady’s own reserved demeanor transformed into radiant, performative power that could draw even the surliest bastard in. She didn’t even sing at full volume; Varric could recognize her holding back, but she still managed to captivate him and probably everyone else on this floor of the Hanged Man with each mesmerizing, lulling note of some foreign song made from a foreign tune. The richness of her voice amplified when she sang. She didn’t break eye contact from Varric, either, making the performance even more intimate and enthralling.

When the elf finished the song, her chest fluttered for a minute before returning to a normal rhythm underneath the summer blue shirt. One hand ran through the coif of slate gray hair before lowering down to her side.

The elf’s expectant, calm gaze pulled Varric back up to the surface. “Well?” she inquired, but she had that kind of look that told Varric she already knew the answer he’d give her.

Why would he want to disappoint?

Managing a smirk, he said, “I think I have a friend or two at The Foal’s Meadow. Let me get in contact with them, see what the entry fee is for performing. You’ll have to audition, though.”

“I’m aware of the process. Thank you.”

All the wheels of opportunity sprung to life in Varric’s mind as he stared at the elf. Yeah. This would be a good investment. He just had that gut feeling. It never led him astray.

“It’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you, Singer.”


	3. The Foal's Meadow

“Can we make a quick stop before we leave? I have some business to attend to.”

“Varric,” Hawke drawled, “Isn’t it a little early to stop at the Blooming Rose?”

“Ha ha. No.”

“How long will it take?” Isabela whined. “My feet hurt.”

“I told you to get better shoes, Rivaini!”

“I’m hungry, too; is there a food stand nearby wherever this _business_ is?”

“There’s a nice little café. If you don’t scare off the customers, you could get a pretty decent pastry.”

“Ooh, a pastry,” Hawke said. “That sounds good. I love mother’s cooking, don’t get me wrong, but there is a difference between Ferelden cooking and, well, everything else. They can be on me, too. What do you think, Fenris, does a pastry sound good?”

“Do I look like I care about a pastry?”

“From the grumpy look on your face,” said Isabela, “yes.”

They climbed farther into Hightown. The early afternoon sun warmed the streets, and the humidity rose. Hawke quickly began to realize that they were entering an unfamiliar section of Hightown when the shops grew fancier and homes bigger. Everything was _greener,_ too; leafy vines clung to sun-washed walls and iron fences, and flower beds dotted front porches and windowsills.

Hawke enthusiastically nudged Varric with an elbow. “Why, Varric, are you seeing a rich, older woman that we don’t know about? Come on, you can tell us, don’t be shy.”

“If I was seeing a rich, older woman, I wouldn’t be hanging out with any of you, now would I?” Varric shot back. He broke away from them and headed to a flower cart. Hawke, Isabela, and Fenris watched him buy a modest bouquet of blue-shaded flowers with little white ones dotting between them. Hawke only recognized the bigger flowers as hydrangeas, which his father used to buy for Mother during the summer when he was a child.

“Are you _sure_ you don’t have a rich woman, Varric?” Isabela prodded as he came back to them. She leaned down and sniffed at the flowers, then hummed pleasantly.

“I’m sure, Rivaini. And besides, she’s not the richest, yet. She will be soon, though. I’d place all my coin on it if I had anybody to bet with.”

“Alright, now I’m intrigued.” Hawke scratched at his beard. They continued up the cobbled street. “Not a lover, but not a stranger. Then who are you going to see?”

“A business partner, like I said.”

“You don’t _buy_ business partners flowers,” said Isabela. “Even I know that.”

“I’m inclined to agree with Hawke and Isabela,” Fenris put in. “Is it a business partner you’re trying to impress?”

“Maker, no,” Varric laughed. “It’s her opening night, that’s all. I wanted to wish her good luck and make sure everything is set.”

“Opening night? What opening night?”

Varric groaned. “If you just _wait_ for another minute, then you can meet her. Maker, it’s like I’m talking to children.”

Isabela only clicked her tongue. “Testy, testy. You really do want to impress this mystery woman, don’t you?”

“Rivaini, I’m already impressive enough. I don’t need to try.”

She laughed, but they all gave it a rest until they reached the establishment Varric was taking them to. When Hawke saw the place, he let out a low whistle. “The Foal’s Meadow, eh? Carver and I got kicked out of here, once. Well, not really _kicked out—_ we weren’t allowed to even go in. ‘Too dirty,’ the doormen said. Can you believe that?”

Flatly, Fenris said, “Absolutely not.”

“This place is overpriced, anyway,” said Isabela, crossing her arms and eyeing the place. “It’s where all the rich people come to pretend that they’re actually artistic and intellectual.”

“That means it’s the place where money is to be made,” Varric commented over his shoulder before he went to approach the single doorman lounging against the wall of the inn. After a quick conversation and the exchange of a few coins, the guard jerked a thumb to let Varric and the others pass.

“My lady, fair gentlemen,” Varric announced when he pushed the door open, “welcome to The Foal’s Meadow.”

A cool, pleasant breeze brushed against Hawke’s skin as he crossed the threshold. The inn was spacious and well-lit with natural light coming from the strategically-placed windows, where bowls of ice were set directly in front of them. The inn had an open second floor with gilded wooden railing around it for people to peer down to the first level. A few nobles dined at some of the linen-covered tables, but overall, the place wasn’t busy.

A curtained stage sat at one end of the first floor. An unlit chandelier gently swayed above it from the occasional breeze. One of the inn’s servants swept the dark stage.

“Singer!” Varric exclaimed, drawing Hawke’s attention from the stage and to the other side of the inn where the extravagant bar counter was set. He saw an elven woman slide off a barstool and make her way toward Varric, who had his arms outstretched with the bouquet in one hand. “Are you ready for tonight?”

She smiled warmly at him. The woman wore a simple lilac-colored dress. It would have looked peasant-like had it not been for the fine material the dress was made from, as well as the braided belt cinched around her waist.

“Hello, Varric,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to be here so early in the day. Are you not going to be able to make it to the performance tonight?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I just happened to find myself in the area with my associates and decided to drop in.” He gave her the bouquet and offered a flourished bow. “Think of it as a pre-show gift. For good luck, that sort of thing.”

“Thank you.” The woman brought the flowers up to her nose and inhaled. “They smell lovely.” Her eyes, which Hawke noted were similar in color to the bouquet, landed on him, Isabela, and Fenris. “Introduce me to your friends, Varric. I want to know what sort of people you spend your time with when you’re not hunched over your desk writing stories.”

Varric stretched an arm out to Hawke. “Singer, meet Garrett Hawke, another business partner of mine. Hawke, Singer.”

He bowed. “A pleasure, my lady.”

“That fine woman over there is Isabela, and the stormy-eyed elf beside her is Fenris.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” She said it so sincerely it made Hawke somewhat suspicious.

“You’re too pretty to be involved with Varric,” said Isabela, and Fenris huffed a laugh. “You can tell us if he’s blackmailing you or something of that sort. I’ll kill him right here. Get this place looking a little more liked the Hanged Man.”

She remained unphased by Isabela’s joking, abrupt bluntness. Her smile remained. “No, that isn’t necessary. He has been a helpful friend. It’s because of him that I’m here at all.”

“See? Honestly, Rivaini, I can’t believe you think so lowly of me!” Varric exclaimed, a hand to his chest.

“What, you want me to think highly of you?”

“Not exactly. Find a happy medium, alright?”

“So what _are_ you doing here, then?” Hawke asked Singer.

“I’m performing tonight.” She gestured to the empty stage. “I’ll be singing.”

“Meaning no offense, my lady,” said Fenris, “but how were you able to get into a place like this? Hightown doesn’t recognize elves as anything more than servants.”

Singer gave him a knowing gaze, as if she was aware of some secret joke the rest of them weren’t in on. “I am very good at singing. Most tend to focus on my voice more than my ears. But it was not the easiest journey. Varric ensured I made it here, though.”

“I wouldn’t have done if I didn’t think you could make it,” Varric smirked at her. “She’s got strong pipes. They’ll knock you off your feet if you stand too close.”

“He’s a flatterer,” Singer said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“But he’s terribly good at it,” said Isabela. She folded her arms. “I must say, I’m curious as to what you sound like, seeing as your _patron_ is a dwarf who likes to excessively unbutton his shirt.”

“Oh, you like it.”

“I’m not saying I don’t! But you understand, don’t you?”

“Look, Singer, don’t listen to whatever it is she’s trying to lure you in with. You don’t have to invite anybody you don’t want to.”

She moved her gaze over Hawke, Isabela, and Fenris once more. Singer went back to linger on Hawke, and he resisted the urge to shift on his heels. “There is no harm in it, Varric, unless you think there is.”

He tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. “Depends on you define ‘harm,’ Singer.”

“Varric!” Isabela proclaimed in admonishment. “I’m hurt you think that we can’t behave ourselves!”

“Shouldn’t hurt,” Fenris muttered. “It’s quite true.”

Singer didn’t stop staring at Hawke. “What do you think? Your friends follow you.”

“A terrible choice, really,” he chuckled. “I don’t really understand why.”

“Because you’re a magnet.” She shrugged as though it was the most obvious answer in the world.

Hawke’s brow piqued. “Er, and what’s a magnet, exactly? Is that some Orlesian word?”

She paused for a moment, then said, “It means you attract people because of your qualities, subconscious or not.”

He chuckled again to hide more of the discomfort building in his chest. Maker, she really wouldn’t give up that look, would she? Like she had him pinned to the floor with periwinkle arrows. “I also know how to find the best jobs for the easiest coin,” he offered.

Singer hummed. “Do you?”

Another awkward laugh. “Now, Singer, ease off,” Varric easily stepped in. “You know how people don’t like being analyzed by you.”

“Why not?” She finally directed her attention to Varric, who had more practice weathering her gaze. “I’m complimenting him.”

“If you’re complimenting him, then say, ‘Hey, you’re a nice guy. Can you get your friends to act their best during my performance tonight?’”

Singer didn’t act like Merrill, who had little social awareness and always nodded enthusiastically when she got steered in the right direction of what to say. No, the elf in front of Hawke kept still, as if she was weighing the credibility of Varric’s advice.

Then, from her mouth, she suddenly gave a near-perfect impression of Varric’s voice. “Hey, you’re a nice guy. Can you get your friends to act their best during my performance tonight?”

Isabela barked a laugh, and Hawke followed closely behind her, especially considering that Singer’s expression didn’t change a fraction. Varric sighed and threw his hands up. “I hate it when you do that! And besides, you gotta get my tone gravellier! Make it suaver!”

“No, no, I think that was perfect,” Isabela laughed. “Andraste’s ass, but that was _really_ spot-on.”

Singer smiled with all the humility of a Chantry sister.

“You are all allowed to come tonight,” she said, returning to the almost-lost topic from the beginning of the conversation. “I’d be happy to have some support. I’m afraid a large portion of the crowd may want to turn their noses up at me. It’s always nice to have at least a few people who won’t.”

“Question.” Hawke pointed an inquisitive finger at her. “Will there be free wine?”

Varric and Fenris groaned.

“Not yet. Give me a couple months, though, and I’ll have tables reserved with full spreads,” Singer replied without blanching.

“I’d say she was bragging,” said Varric, “but she has a Maker-given gift. She’ll have the whole place wrapped around her finger in a month.”

“Either way…” A slyness entered Singer’s voice, like spice in her throat, “I’d sneak in a flask or two if I were you.”

-

Hawke didn’t remember he had his flask in his hand the moment Singer started to perform on the stage at The Foal’s Meadow. With a small harp in her lap, she wove a song that pulled Hawke from reality and into the depths of her melody. He didn’t realize he had started crying until the song finished, and when he hurriedly went to wipe them away, he got glimpses of the others around him doing the same.

The song was mournful, beautiful, and it reminded him of Bethany, for Maker’s sake. _Bethany._ He tried hard not to think of his sister since that ogre smashed her head of pretty black hair into the blighted Ferelden ground. Hawke avoided touching the blame he carried with himself; it had become so deeply part of him that if he took it out, he was afraid he wouldn’t know himself.

_I'm going there to see my father  
And all my loved ones who've gone on  
I'm only going o’er the dales  
I'm only going o’er home_

The Foal’s Meadow broke out into such thunderous applause that the roof threatened to come down on them all. Singer stood and bowed. She wore different clothes than the dress Hawke saw her in earlier. Her white, high-collared tunic was tucked into black trousers with a high waist. The outfit must have been purposefully simplistic to not distract from her voice.

Hawke had to admit, he doubted Singer’s sureness concerning her ability to sing. How could anybody talk like that? He knew he couldn’t—and even if he did, it was only in jest. This elf, though, _she_ had nothing to prove. Her voice was nothing like Hawke had ever heard before. And, from the deafening applause all around him, it was nothing like anybody here had ever really heard.

“Told ya!” Varric shouted over the wild noise. Hawke glanced down at the dwarf. Maker, he had no shame in hiding his smugness, did he? “She’s got pipes!”

Singer transfigured when she performed. The demure caution and veiled character slid from her body, leaving nothing but bare, unabashed _life._

She caught Hawke staring at her from a distance while his group of rowdy friends tried to out-cheer everyone. Even Carver, for all his bitter blood, had momentarily forgotten his sourness to whoop and holler at Singer.

Her smile broadened, shaping her face in a way that made Hawke’s insides burn like he had just ingested an unhealthy amount of lyrium.

They met Singer outside of The Foal’s Meadow. After she managed to get away from all her newfound fans and admirers, she slipped into the alleyway exit and walked around to greet them in the front. Music continued to drift from the inn’s open windows, but it was nothing in comparison to what Singer had given everyone.

“That was amazing!” Varric laughed, starting off another mini round of applause for Singer. Still hanging onto remnants of the performance, she allowed a broad grin and a soft laugh. “You’re going to be the talk of Hightown for months! I already discussed with Lucio about reserving a spot for you same time next week; he said he wanted you performing at _least_ three songs!”

“Maybe he’ll give me a room at the inn, then,” Singer contemplated. “Could you draw up a formal contract and have that as part of the stipulation of my employment? It should be coming, soon.”

He winked at her. “Already started it.”

Singer introduced herself to those she hadn’t met in the afternoon. Aveline gave her a brusque handshake and an awkward compliment. For such an efficient woman, she had no idea how to act around people, sometimes.

Actually, as Hawke watched everybody interact with Singer, he realized that _none_ of them did. They were all terrible! At least Merrill was _sweet_ about it; all the others were downright painful. Carver could barely sputter out his own name, let alone anything else. Anders made an off-hand comment that tried to be joking but wound up making Hawke grimace. Fenris acted as though he had no idea what a compliment even was, and Isabela _had_ to make a comparison of the song involving sex. Sad sex, specifically. Because why not?

Hawke drug a hand down the side of his face. He couldn’t entirely fault them; Singer carried herself with an unignorable presence, like the sun beating down. If she was aware of how she made others feel because of it, she did not relent. But, fortunately, Singer deftly and sincerely took in all the cringe-inducing sentences from the people Hawke was unlucky enough to have at his side.

When he got a moment with her while everybody started to loudly begin several inane conversations, Hawke scratched at his beard and said, “I realize that in the long day I’ve known you, I’ve _only_ ever known you as Singer. As much as Varric prides himself in giving nicknames, that doesn’t have to be your only identity among others who are much more grounded in reality.”

“Are you grounded in reality?” she asked. The well-lit torches from the outside of the inn turned her gray hair a warm silver. Hawke became aware of how close they were. Maker, why did Kirkwall have to be so damned humid? It made him sweat. A lot.

“Not as much as I’d like to be, but that comes with my profession.”

“And what is your profession?”

“Er…vivacious entrepreneur?”

Singer’s lips curled up into a smirk that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “An apt description, I’m sure,” she said. It should have sounded dry, but Hawke didn’t catch anything.

“I go where the wind takes me, my lady,” he sighed with dramatic longing. “And the sound of coin, of course, but the wind plays an important part.”

“Ah, I see.” Singer folded her arms and looked at Hawke’s group. Merrill had climbed onto Isabela’s shoulders, shimmying her body in a little dance, and Anders circled around the two of them in a laughably horrible dance of his own. They were trying to do it to the tune of the music coming from the inn, but it was far too pleasant and slow to match their pace. “Varric informed me of the partnership you have with him.”

“Right, don’t remind me,” Hawke sighed. “As much as I love the sight and smell of darkspawn, I never thought I’d have to _pay_ to get another look at them.” He glanced at her. “Have you ever seen them? Darkspawn?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know they’re not a pretty sight.”

Singer went quiet, and Hawke started to become afraid that he had veered their budding conversation into waters too dark. Just as he was about to make some idiotic attempt to bring it back, she said, “I hope what you’ll find down there will be worth it.”

He held back a relieved breath. “So do I. That’s what Varric promises, anyway, and just look at him—he’s the pinnacle of trustworthiness.”

Varric was currently in the midst of prodding Aveline to tell a story about her childhood. Isabela, Merrill, and Anders continued to dance, with Merrill having gotten off the pirate’s shoulders and clasping a blushing Carver’s hands in her own while they jaunted.

“He is a good friend,” Singer said, “as hard as he tries to hide it.”

Hawke smirked, “Yeah, I suppose he is.”

Isabela suddenly pulled him into the dancing, and by the time he was able to look back at Singer, she was gone. Hawke made it all the way back to the cramped, shitty little hovel in Lowtown before he realized that he hadn’t gotten her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["I Am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger"](https://open.spotify.com/track/2xAVJSWRfLWseD3otASYlr?si=tRmbACPjQounPQJ1wRlFUg)


	4. Dressmaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw-ish

“Anders?”

The voice that called to him was so startling that he whipped around as if he had gotten caught doing something dirty instead of boiling cloth.

“Maker— _Singer?”_ Anders gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you even find my clinic? Darktown has too much shit and muck for you to strut about in it!”

She walked up to him. Singer had never visited his clinic, before, and he didn’t exactly _invite_ her to. She was made from…finer material than Anders and the rest. They brought her to the Hanged Man, once, and the sight of her nose slightly scrunching at the food, drink, and smell was the most disgust he’d ever seen her display. To think she voluntarily came to Darktown—

“I don’t mind,” Singer replied. She lifted the basket in her grip. “I brought some food. I’m guessing many of your patients need it.”

“They do,” he warily said. “And you didn’t get mugged on your way down? Someone of your…” Anders swallowed as he struggled to come up with the right word. It didn’t help that Singer had that damned look about her all the time, making him nervous for no reason. _“Status_ could have gotten a shiv in your side for that basket alone. A lot of refugees still continue to go hungry.”

“I wasn’t bothered.” Singer set the basket on Anders’ desk and uncovered the linen-wrapped food. There were heaps of cured meats, cheese, and hard biscuits. “If I was, though, I could take care of myself.”

“With what weapon?” he couldn’t help but scoff.

“This weapon.” Singer seriously raised her fist. Anders laughed, and she let herself smile.

“Well, for all my griping, thank you. I know a few patients who could use what you’ve brought. Maker, how much did all of this cost?”

Singer shrugged. “I don’t know. I just took it from some stalls in the market.”

Anders sputtered. Singer remained unrepentant—but unconfused—at his reaction. “You—you _stole_ it? All of it? And nobody stopped you?”

“It’s not about being sneaky,” she said, taking her sunhat off and mildly fanning her face with it. “It’s about smiling and conversation.”

“Distraction, you mean,” Anders corrected dryly.

“Whatever you want to call it, yes.” Singer pulled out a bottle of wine and two plain wooden cups. She uncorked it and began to pour pale pink liquid.

“I don’t drink on the job, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t want my patients to see me wobbling around while I tried to save their child from an infection.”

“It’s tame. You could drink a whole bottle and barely feel a thing.”

Singer handed a cup to Anders, and after a moment, he took a sip. It was fruity and fresh. “Mm.” He smacked his lips. “That isn’t too bad. Where is it from?”

“A lord’s vineyard somewhere in southern Orlais. Forgot his name. But he makes good wine, I’ll give him that.” Singer raised her cup toward him and took a drink from it. Anders tilted his head back and smirked.

“I’m sure you have nobles of all sorts lining up to make you their exclusive songbird.”

Her gray brows twitched. “Yeah, you could say that.” Anders gestured for her to take a seat in a splintered chair, and even though she considered standing rather than sitting in it, she eventually did. “But a bird does not willingly go into a cage.”

Anders mused on her words, knowing the truth of the statement. “No,” he spoke, “it does not.”

It wasn’t until he took another sip of wine that he made a noise and slammed the cup back onto his desk. “Oi, wait a minute, let’s go back to the _previous_ topic of conversation, yeah? Lady Distraction and Deception? Was this wine-sharing all some sort of _ruse,_ eh?” He narrowed his eyes at Singer, who simply continued to drink. Her slender throat bobbed up and down in an elegantly smooth way, and when she flicked away an excess drip of wine from her lower lip, Anders couldn’t resist tracking the small gesture—

He pointed a finger at Singer. “Stop it. I’ll throw you out if I have to.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she said so innocently it _had_ to have been the truth. Anders almost bought it. Even with his doubt, he kept his eyes narrowed and mouth in a suspicious frown.

“You’re a sly one, Singer,” he eventually muttered. “Maker have mercy on all the souls that come across you.”

“Mercy? I am a blessing, Anders.”

Singer made her joke prominent enough to be visible on her face. He chuckled and drained the cup to pour himself some more. “Sure, let everyone believe that.”

“Do you believe it?”

He hung his head and let out a short huff. “Why must you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know, twist the words thrown your way back at the original speaker. In this unfortunate situation, me.”

Singer remained silent. Anders lifted his head back to her. She was…an enigma, safe to say. One moment, she had been a singing stranger, and now here she was, having a discussion with his scruffy face. Why did she bother with him? With any of them? Singer had become important enough to never have to deign Lowtown again, let alone Darktown. She didn’t need to make herself connected to them through Varric. If anything, a sane person would have stayed far away.

Did she know that Hawke, Merrill, and himself were mages? What if she planned to turn them all in?

Justice whispered, _She hides in plain sight. A relic. A harbinger. Be wary._

The back of Anders’ neck grew hot with sweat. He gripped the cup in his hand tighter. _Don’t,_ he whispered back. _Don’t start. She has done nothing wrong._

 _Yet,_ came the ominous reply. _She is not what she seems. Not what she seems._

Singer drank the rest of the wine in her cup and stood. She placed her hat back on her head and smiled at him. “I do it because it means I don’t have to talk as much. Have a nice day, Anders. If you need any funds, just tell me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Like what?” he couldn’t help but pipe back. “Steal money like you stole all this?”

She waved a hand at him while walking away. “The rich deserve to be stolen from.”

“And from the looks of it, you plan on becoming rich yourself,” Anders called as she left. “Are you going to think the same thing then?”

With a smile tossed over her shoulder, Singer replied, “Only if the thief is good enough not to get caught.”

-

When Hawke came back from a day at docks with only a _little_ bit of blood on him, he didn’t expect to see _this._

“Oh, Garrett! Carver! Good, you’re back,” Mother said. She stood in the center of the small main room atop a little stood. While he’d seen her in only her shift before, it was never during the middle of the day. Bolts of fabric, rolled and half-rolled, piled atop the nearby table.

“Mother,” Carver said hesitantly, “what’s going on?”

“I am going on.”

Hawke’s heart stumbled like it tripped over a crack in the pavement. Out from the kitchen came Singer, holding a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Oi, what’re you doing here?” Carver bluntly asked.

“Don’t be rude, dear,” Mother chastised. Singer only smiled and set the tray next to the fabric. She then brought a cup of tea to Mother, who took it with thanks. “Your friend is here to help make me a dress. I can’t go petitioning the viscount for our house and title back without the proper attire, can I?”

“How much is this going to cost?” Hawke entreated in. Gamlen’s house carried a ripe kind of stuffiness to it, and mixed with the smell of Mabari, it made him feel uncharacteristically embarrassed to have a guest over.

“Nothing,” Singer replied. She went back and drank from her own chipped teacup before reaching for some fabric and bringing it over. “I wanted to do something for your mother.”

“How did the two of you even meet?” Carver asked the important questions while Hawke treaded with caution under his own roof. Singer looked…nice as usual. Her hair was pushed back by a yellow silk kerchief, and her white tunic hung off both shoulders. The hems of an airy blue skirt probably collected the permanent coating of dust on the sad wooden floor.

“At the Viscount’s Keep,” Mother said. “We were both waiting in the property claim room. Dreadful place. Singer heard my name being called, and she struck up a conversation about knowing you two. Can you believe it? How serendipitous.”

“Oh, it’s something like that,” Carver muttered with no small amount of sarcasm. If Singer heard, she ignored him and continued to hold the fabric up to Mother’s body.

“I thought you gave up the seamstress work,” Hawke said. He somehow made sitting in a chair look awkward. It didn’t help that Carver snorted at the sight of him. “Now you’re a full-time performer.”

“Not full-time just yet. The next two performances should get me a solid enough spot to not have to work for Lady Beaumont anymore.” Singer then hummed, shook her head, and went back to the fabric.

“What was wrong with that color?” Mother asked.

“Doesn’t make you look important enough. Too girlish. We need something deeper.”

“Won’t that make me look…old?”

“Not if it’s made by me, no.”

Hawke still continued to be astonished by some of the things Singer said. It was all so…genuine. Mother should have balked at such a bold statement, but she only laughed at Singer’s words and said, “Oh, I suppose you’re right. I trust you.”

“You’ve only just met!” Carver exclaimed.

“We spent a long time at the property office,” Mother deadpanned.

“And what were _you_ doing at the property office?” Carver had to go and flick an accusing finger at Singer. She found dark mauve fabric with textured patterning and brought it back. Mother cooed at the color and nodded.

“The city actively works against elves owning property beyond the alienage,” Singer said. “Even the elves who sleep in servant’s quarters don’t _own_ anything. I had to begin the process of declaring myself independent of alienage and servitude. I cannot move into The Foal’s Meadow before getting the application processed and approved.” She sighed and wiped at her cheek with the back of a hand. “But it’s alright. When I eventually move out of the Meadow, I’ll only ever need to update the application.”

Hawke raised a brow. “Already looking onward?”

Singer smiled and went back to pair the fabric with another color. “That’s the only way to look.”

“Incredibly true, my dear,” Mother agreed. Hawke tried not to shoot _her_ a look. He figured Mother’s definition of “looking onward” was different than Singer’s.

“Garrett, Carver.” The sound of his name coming from her lips almost made him jump. Singer turned back to them and pointed at the floor. “Could you sweep and mop? I want to lay the fabric out on the floor to get started on cutting, but I can’t do that with the state of it.”

“But Mother—” Carver immediately started.

“Is not required to do everything around the house. I’m asking you.” With a smile, she added, “Please?”

Hawke stood and punched Carver in the shoulder. “Come on, idiot.”

“Oh—what? No! I’m not going to let some random lady boss me around.”

“Or I can do it,” Singer shrugged. “Where’s the broom?”

Carver blushed and got up. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—ugh, _fine.”_

Hawke didn’t miss the knowing look Singer exchanged with Mother. She extended her hand to Mother and said, “Let’s enjoy our tea outside while the boys get to work.”

“That sounds lovely, dear.” Mother took the hand, stepped off the stool, and put a robe on. As they passed, Singer glanced at Hawke and showed the _barest_ hint of smugness. It was met with equal part playfulness, but he squinted at her. He would have shouted that he was quite aware of the mind trick she had just pulled had it not been for Carver standing in the same room. If Little Brother found out he got played, he’d throw a tantrum, cause a scene, and leave Hawke to do the work all by himself.

He didn’t want Singer to leave just yet anyway.

About half an hour later, the brothers left the door and two tiny windows open to let the floor dry. Singer and Mother lounged on the dingy steps outside with Bear. Of course, Singer had brought a blanket to sit on so her pretty clothes wouldn’t get dustier than they already were.

“Alright, you slave drivers, we did what you asked,” Carver said, dropping down on a step below them.

“Backbreaking work, it was,” Hawke added, somehow finding himself sitting next to Singer. “Nearly died from exhaustion. And we’re not even getting paid for it!”

“Here’s your payment.” Singer offered the plate of biscuits he had seen earlier. “I got them from that little café next to the Meadow. The one you love so much.”

“They have _chocolate_ in their croissants! It’s all very Orlesian. I hate to say how much I love everything they sell.” Hawke took three biscuits and let Singer pass the plate down to Carver. He took a bite and hummed. They had a sweetness only Hightown could afford to put in its baked goods.

Up this close, Hawke noted that the kerchief keeping Singer’s short gray hair pushed back had tiny, embroidered flowers along the edges.

The breeze from Mother’s fan drifted against Hawke’s skin. Singer began to hum, and the biscuit in Hawke’s mouth couldn’t compare to the low sweetness of music in her throat. It was a tune he didn’t recognize, but he wasn’t about to complain or inquire.

“Let her keep to herself, for now,” Varric had said when they all began to prod him about who Singer was and where she came from. “She’ll open up in time. Don’t be so hasty to figure her out! I got a feeling that she’ll only push people away who try to pick at her locks. If you’re patient enough, she’ll come around.”

Hawke couldn’t decide if Singer purposefully kept herself shrouded in mystery, or if she did it because she couldn’t face whatever pain lay in her life. Maybe a bit of both.

When they found the floor dry enough to continue work, Singer spread the fabric out. The more Hawke studied it, the more he realized that this should have cost them Gamlin’s shitty house to afford. Yet here Singer was, tying up the side of her long, flowing skirt in a knot so she could better crouch on the ground to cut here and pin there, never mentioning how much any of this could cost. Didn’t she say it was _free?_ Was she covering the coin for it? Singer was making a steady income by singing, but she was far from a rich woman.

Hawke tried to focus on the important matters instead of how Singer’s knotted skirt hitched up her thigh. When _that_ failed, he turned to Bear to smush the dog’s face in his hands. Bear was attractive enough, he supposed, in all his slobbery, smelly glory.

“Maker, you need a bath,” he said to the dog. Bear whined at him and then lolled out his tongue. Hawke smooched him on his stinky head.

“Alright,” Singer said with a light groan as she leaned back on her knees. She put the scissors down to retighten the kerchief’s knot at the base of her neck. “I’ll take this back to the shop and work on it more. I should have the sewing done in…a few days? A week at most.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” Mother said, helping Singer off the ground. “When we reclaim our house, I will repay you—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary,” Singer cut off kindly but firmly. She put both hands on Mother’s arms and gave one of her signature impossible-to-look-away-from gazes. “Having you as neighbors will be payment enough. And, if you truly can’t go about life without some form of payment, then you can have your sons help me move into my new place at the Meadow when the time comes.”

Mother sighed, but she hugged Singer. “Just tell me what day, and they’ll be there bright and early.”

“Aw, Mum!” Carver whined. “We’ve got enough going on! What’re we now, moving men?”

“You’re grateful, that’s what,” Mother shot back. Even if it didn’t make that much sense, the tone was final. Carver simmered back into a sulk.

“Do you need help carrying all that fabric back to your shop?” Hawke questioned, standing and stretching his back. “You brought quite a bit.”

Singer began piling the bolts back up into a neat stack. “No, it’s fine.”

“Nonsense, dear, let Garrett carry everything back for you. He’s a big strong lad!”

Singer paused, fingers tapping against peach-colored fabric that would have looked fantastic against her smooth brown skin. She half-turned to Hawke. “It’s getting late in the afternoon. Don’t you have…business somewhere?”

“Only at the Hanged Man,” he shrugged. “I promised Isabela a round of Wicked Grace. We don’t have anywhere to be until long after dark.”

After a pause, Singer asked back, “You and Isabela have… _business?”_

The way she purred her words sounded exactly how the pirate would have said it. Carver laughed like it was the funniest joke in the whole wide world.

“No! No, no,” Hawke chuckled. Why was he waving his hands around so much? Even _Mother_ couldn’t hide her laughter. “No. Why—did she say anything to you?”

Carver only laughed harder. Singer smirked and went back to packing her materials. Annoyed, Hawke said, “We’re clearing out some bandits on Aveline’s behalf. There. Happy? That’s the only ‘business’ between us.”

“So defensive, Brother,” Carver tutted. “Is there something you haven’t told us?”

Hawke glared flatly at him, then plainly turned and said, “Mother, Carver got a tattoo on his back.”

_“What?”_

“Wait—why’d you go and tell her? Mum, it’s not—”

“Show me!”

“No!”

Hawke ducked between the argument and picked up Singer’s supplies. “You don’t need to do that, really,” she said, voice soft underneath the rising argument. Though she did not smile, her eyes shone like she was.

“Nonsense. I don’t want to be here when Mother sees the tattoo. It’s _very_ ugly.”

“What is it?”

They exited the door and headed back out into the late afternoon heat. “A, er, bare-breasted maiden. Looks more like some sort of…fish.”

Singer breathed a laugh. “Who even tattooed him? And why’d he get it?”

 _“Well.”_ Hawke adjusted the fabric. “There may or may not have been a bet involved, a game of cards, and too much Hanged Man swill.”

“Ah,” she drawled, “so it was one of _those_ tattoos.”

“If by that you mean a stupid, drunken one? Yes.”

People waved and greeted Hawke as they passed. Since his arms were full, he nodded and grinned back, offering quick, playful responses to quick, playful questions. If anyone noted that Singer walked next to him, there were no comments made. He was glad for that. Though he had never seen Singer show any embarrassment yet, he didn’t want any offhand comment to cause it.

When they passed through the last stretch of Lowtown and crossed into the threshold of Hightown, Hawke finally had a moment to breathe from the friendly barrage. “You know everyone in Lowton, don’t you?” Singer inquired. She still had her skirt knotted off to one side.

“More like everyone knows _me,”_ Hawke scoffed lightly. “I did, er, work for a few people that only recently ended. Lowtown found itself very familiar with Carver’s and my faces by the time our contract was up. It hasn’t quite faded. Doesn’t help that a lot of the work I do now is still involved in these parts.”

Singer hummed. “I see. Well. It seems as though they like you well enough.”

“Oh, that’s because it’s all the people in the day. You should see how I’m treated at night. Terribly! Maker, some even go as far to try and _kill_ me!”

She glanced up at him with an impish grin, and Hawke nearly stumbled and sent all her pretty fabric flying up the staircases. “Maybe you should just go to bed early.”

“And have a peaceful night? Perish the thought! Besides, I’d never cool down from these damned hot days if I didn’t stay out after dark.”

“Open a window, then.”

“Did you even see those windows at Gamlin’s house? They somehow manage to simultaneously keep all the breeze out and let all the rats and bugs in.”

“Does Bear hunt the rats?”

“Viciously.”

A softer, lighter giggle. “I like him. He’s stinky. He smells like old corn.”

 _“Old corn?_ I…well, I suppose that’s an accurate description, really.” Hawke chuckled. “Old corn.”

The sky began to turn to that hazy summer orange when they made it back to Lady Beaumont’s shop. Singer took him around to the side entrance located in the alleyway. Hawke had to shuffle sideways because of the girth of the material he carried. “I’m sorry…” he huffed while he made his way in, “if your fabric…stinks like a Fereldan…I tried very hard to keep all my sweat in.”

“I’m sure you did,” Singer lowly laughed. “Thank you.”

She brought an iron key out from the pocket of her skirt and unlocked the side door. “Do I have to be quiet?” Hawke whispered as he peered into the dimness of the shop’s interior. “Or shall I incur the wrath of the seamstress?”

“Although I’m sure you wouldn’t be in the profession you are if you worried about incurring wrath, you don’t need to worry.” Singer slipped the key back into her pocket and stepped in, beckoning for Hawke to follow. “Lady Beaumont left for Orlais with Marianne and Suzette a week ago to look at some fancy new textile place in hopes of creating a partnership. They won’t be back until the end of the month. I’m allowed to run the front desk, make alterations, and sell fabric, but I won’t be doing much dressmaking until her return. It gives me more free time to do as I please.”

“Like make Mother a dress,” Hawke said. He couldn’t help but sigh at how nice the inside of the shop felt. All the curtains had been closed, leaving it unheated by daylight.

“Exactly. You can set everything right there on that table. I’ll sort through it later.”

Trying not to be unceremonious, Hawke dropped the bolts down. Singer then plucked the beginnings of Mother’s dress out from the pile and began to drape it over a bust. They still stood in almost complete darkness, save for the light coming in from the side door.

“Where do you sleep, exactly?”

Singer pointed upstairs. “Lady Beaumont gives us free boarding. It can be a bit cramped with all three of us, but at least I don’t have to pay for it. There’s also a terrace for me to drink my morning tea on and judge everyone I see in the street.”

“That does sound very nice. And she lives here, too?”

“Yes.”

“Is she married?”

“Widowed for ten years.” Singer paused before sticking a pin in the fabric. “I think she might have killed her husband, actually.”

Hawke leaned against the table. “Oh, do tell.”

“I don’t have any solid evidence, but whenever she has talked about her husband, she sounds pretty happy he’s gone. One time she mentioned that he died under ‘mysterious circumstances,’ but she was smug when she said it.”

“Mm, yes, murdered for sure,” Hawke nodded sagely. “But at least she’s doing well for herself.”

“Exactly.” Singer placed another pin in the dress and stepped back. Hawke looked at what he could see in the shop while she gave her project one last examination. “What do you think? Will your mother look pretty in this?”

His gaze went to Singer, first, then to the beginnings of the dress. “Oh, very much so. This’ll give her some more hope in reclaiming our home and looking proper while she does.”

She nodded, closed the side door, and began walking toward the stairs. “Come on. I have some extra pastries in the kitchen you can take home.”

Hawke made some kind of noise not even he was sure meant. “That’s—not necessary. Our hovel may look bad, but we’re not starving.”

“It’s not about starving. It’s about enjoying things.”

Singer didn’t stop to wait for Hawke, so he had no choice but to follow her up the dark staircase. The boards creaked under his weight. He blinked a few times to see. Singer had no problem, apparently, due to her familiarization and damn elven eyesight.

The upstairs was a tad bit warmer but still not enough to be uncomfortable. It had a kitchen, a small sitting room, and a hallway that led to the bedrooms. Singer opened one of the curtains in the kitchen to shed some light.

“Do you feel safe here?” Hawke inquired. “You’re all alone.”

“Depends on the time of the day.” Singer grabbed some linen cloth and began putting delectable pastries on top of it. She also threw in a small jar of deep red jam. “But most people around here respect Lady Beaumont, and so they have a modicum of tolerance for me.”

“That’s good.” Hawke didn’t know what “modicum” meant, but he could use his honed inference skills to understand its connotation.

“For now,” Singer sighed. She tied the linen up in a pretty knot. “I am not going to live through this life with somebody else’s heel on my chest.”

“Sounds like those plans are well on their way, though, performing at the Meadow and whatnot. What’s next? A six-month tour in the Marches? Ferelden? _Orlais?”_ Hawke said the last nation scandalously, and it got Singer to grin again.

“Orlais will collapse in on itself when I arrive.”

His smile faded a bit to take Singer in. She meant it in all seriousness. He knew that low look in her eyes, too.

“Why, Singer,” he said with a wry smile that didn’t match his tone, “are you a revolutionist?”

She only shrugged a shoulder, smile returning. It sent chills down Hawke’s spine, and he didn’t know whether it was a good or bad thing because the light feeling in his stomach grew the longer he stared at Singer.

“I am…something.”

He let out huff. “That you are.”

After a moment of silence, Singer turned her head toward the window. “So.” She loosely folded her arms. A ray of light crossed over her bare collarbone and shoulders, turning brown skin a golden orange. “Want to have sex?”

Hawke nearly lost his balance at the question forming from her honey-laced voice, but he managed to stay upright and absently scratch his beard, pretending to be contemplative. “I haven’t bathed yet. I may stink.”

Instead of saying something any normal person might, like, “Oh, no, Hawke, you smell incredible! Like a fresh bed of roses! With a dash of cool ocean spray!” Singer sauntered forward, smirking slightly, and said, “Not bad enough that I’d gag.”

He gasped, then narrowed his eyes at her. “Has anybody ever told you that you can be a little too blunt sometimes?”

“Obviously.”

Hawke couldn’t remember who closed more of the gap. He could only take in Singer’s body pressing against his, her hands cupping his cheeks with surprising tenderness while her full mouth seared imprints on his lips. He gathered her up in his arms, willing to hunch slightly in order to return her kisses better. Singer smelled like fabric and soap, simplistic and intoxicating.

Maker, was this really happening?

Singer hummed into his mouth when he cradled the nape of her neck, proving to him that yes, this was some sort of dream come to life. Hawke hadn’t…he didn’t _linger_ on fantasies, but how could he not dream of Singer during sleepless nights and the longing of being held? Being wanted? She was the only one in this Maker-forsaken city who didn’t look at Hawke with any sort of expectancy, and it drew his helpless heart in.

He reluctantly parted from her lips in order to taste more of the skin on her cheek, jaw, neck. Singer’s pulse thrummed. When she arched her back and softly gasped, Hawke’s pants strained. She felt the twitch against her and moved both hips into his. He let out a rather embarrassing, ragged breath as a strong jolt of pleasure made him weak in the knees and hunger for more.

Reacting, Singer’s grip on him tightened more as she moved to clutch the collar of his leather strappings. Her tongue flicked against his, slick and hot and sweet. When her hips rolled against Hawke again, he hissed and reached down to grab her ass with both hands. The floorboards underneath them creaked with the movement.

Singer lifted a leg and jumped up, trusting enough to be gathered in Hawke’s embrace. Her skirt hiked around her thighs, revealing everything he had been trying not to imagine in his head all afternoon. Hawke backed up until he hit a wall to brace himself against, but he wound up bumping his head in doing so.

“You alright?” Singer whispered through hurried kisses.

“I have an…incredibly hard head…” Hawke replied, proudly grinning while attempting to continue their tryst. “No worries.”

Her breathy laugh tickled his skin, followed by a quick, gentle bite on his lower lip. “Second door on the left is the bedroom. My bed is closest to the window.”

Hawke obliged the instructions. Keeping a firm hold on Singer, he stumbled down the hall, half-blinded by Singer’s overwhelming presence. When he did find his way into the darkened room lit only by the faint evening sun seeping through the curtains, Hawke carried Singer to her small bed and set her down with him on top. She writhed under his body, legs unfurling but staying bent at the knees. Hawke leaned into her core, feeling its heat beneath his own tight trousers. “Maker,” he loudly whispered. His cock throbbed, and Singer bucked into it.

“Take off your clothes,” she said, struggling to keep her eyes open. Hawke sat back on his knees and fumbled to undo the strappings. When it came loose, he threw it to the floor. Singer undid the yellow kerchief keeping her hair back and unbuttoned her blouse enough to pull it over her head. They pooled much more gracefully onto the dark wooden floor. It left Singer in her delicate breast band and skirt. Hawke had his trousers halfway undone when he got distracted by the sight of her. Elbows propped up, chest fluttering, blue eyes glinting, Singer all but beckoned Hawke to rejoin her. There was a way about the sudden, captivating vivacity she exuded that reminded Hawke of when she performed on stage: alluring and sure. Maker, he couldn’t get enough of her smile, either.

Hawke forced himself to at least keep a smidgeon of control so he could enjoy this impossible moment. He crawled back over to Singer, fingers hooking around her skirt and giving it a tug until it came away from her body. But to have her willingly laid almost bare in front of him set off a spark of doubt. “Are you certain you wish to do this with me?” he asked humorously, but he made sure to enunciate the sincerity as well.

Singer’s smiled softened, and the sight of the way she regarded him broke through the hazy lust veiling his thoughts. “Garrett,” she spoke. The sound of his first name almost made him blanch again. Since when was the last time anybody had called him that so intimately? Not even his family often used it. Singer sat up so she could tilt his chin to look straight at her. “Do you want to know something?”

“Always. I do have a scholarly mind, after all.”

There went that grin of hers again. Did Singer really think he was funny, or was she doing it to not hurt his feelings?

“I am unsure of a lot of things.”

He leaned back enough so his neck wouldn’t get tired at the angle. Hawke’s joints needed to be fresh and unhindered when this dream continued. “Well, congratulations,” he grinned, “you have fooled many people, including myself. How could the beautiful, enigmatic Singer ever be unsure of anything?”

“It’s called keeping my cards close,” Singer replied with a streak of cheekiness. “And I’m glad I do a good job of it. But…” She unhooked the clasps at the front of her breast band. The garment fell away. Hawke’s lungs constricted, and his mouth lost all moisture. Was there any water nearby? Would he have to make a mad dash back to the kitchen? No, of course not, idiot, there wasn’t any time. “I can tell you that this is one thing I am sure I want to do.”

She fell back onto the pillow, letting Hawke sink himself on top of her once more. Did she feel how wildly his heart pounded with his chest to hers? Was he crushing her? Was she comfortable? Was that _really_ how he smelled? Would the teensy bed break with him on it?

“Garrett,” Singer laughed when all those questions inevitably came tumbling out. It sounded rich and reverberating in her throat. “Enjoy this with me.”

After a sigh, Hawke buried his head in the slender crook of Singer’s shoulder, chuckling. “You’re right, you’re right,” he muttered, then began to place a line of kisses that trailed down to a breast. Singer’s arms wrapped around his back. “Enjoy this I shall, my lady.”

-

Hawke left the shop as the sun dipped beneath Hightown. A cloth full of pastries and a jar of jam swung jauntily in one hand. He could still feel Singer moving against his skin, hear her wordless song pitching in his ears, taste her sweetness in his mouth. His fingers brushed against the memory of gripping onto her rolling hips, cupping a breast, and cradling the back of her head.

They had laid there afterward, too, sweaty and strewn about each other on the too-small bed. Singer let Hawke rest his head on her chest, and she lightly ran fingers through his hair. Those moments that followed did something…else to him. He didn’t want to think about it, though, so he pushed the rising emotions deep down where it could fester with the rest.

By the time Hawke made it to the Hanged Man after dropping off the pastries and jam at the house, he’d cooled from the heat that came with Singer wrapping her unnaturally strong legs around his waist.

“Hawke,” Isabela drawled, straightening from the sultry slouch in her chair, a tankard in hand. “You look… _refreshed.”_

“I had a nice solid shit,” Hawke replied airily, sliding into a chair next to Varric. “I feel ten pounds lighter!”

Isabela hummed and sipped at her drink. Hawke did his best to be ignorant of her examining stare. If anybody could tell if a person recently fucked, it’d be Isabela.

“Carver told us you went to Singer’s shop to help carry her… _fabric_ back.” The very word she emphasized made it sound dirty.

And Varric, the bastard, immediately picked up on the situation. Hawke called for Norah to bring him a pint to give himself a moment to prepare.

“Garrett Hawke,” the dwarf said as he set down his quill, “did you _assist_ Singer in her _performance?”_

“Absolutely not,” he lied.

Isabela tapped her chin. “Did you… _pin_ her silk?”

 _“Warm_ her vocal cords?”

 _“Bunch_ her skirts?”

“Norah,” Hawke called with a flat grin, “make that two pints.”

“But seriously.” Isabela propped her elbows on the creaking, splintered table. “Did you _tailor_ her corset?”

Varric leaned back into his chair. He picked up the quill again and twirled it between his fingers. “As pretty as she is, Hawke, I’d caution you to be careful. Singer is…a book I can’t read, yet. I’ve parsed together a few sentences here and there, but she’s not…how do I say this?”

“Varric can’t piece her shit together, which is hardly a good sign,” Isabela finished. She tossed her drink back and forcefully wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. “Fuck who you want, Hawke, but don’t let yourself get so trapped between her legs that you can’t get out, then—” She slammed her hand down on the table, causing a loud bang. “You’re dead.”

Norah brought back a pint. “You’re all assuming that I even slept with her,” he said with a casual drink. “You’re both making yourselves look like idiots right now. It’s incredibly amusing.”

With a pat on the back, Varric said, “I like you, Hawke, but you’re a bad liar.”


	5. Unknown Intentions

Lady Beaumont called her “Honey.”

Of course, it wasn’t her real name. Why would it be? Why would Varric _ever_ want to know what Singer’s deal was?

Sure, she made a fine business associate. She was effectively on her way to paying off her debt to Varric that she incurred when he bought her an entry into the Meadow’s quarterly audition. Singer never asked for more than necessary; in fact, she could have prodded Varric into giving her a lot more than she did. But Singer had a streak of self-reliance that ran deep in her veins. He figured that it could easily have turned into pride—except Singer kept to such a brutally honest character that it conflicted with the thought.

But anything else beyond the surface? Varric had trouble discerning the deeper aspects, which made him…unhappy, to say the least.

She wasn’t _bad?_ In fact, she seemed to have a soft spot for refugees and a bearded Lowtown Fereldan. What did it all mean, though? And apparently, she was good at stealing?

Varric couldn’t decide if he wanted to be more suspicious of her than the normal amount. Singer had made an uncanny entrance into their lives. Did she do it intentionally? If so, _why?_ None of them had anything to offer, and she seemed truly focused on her own ambitions than whatever crazy shit they got themselves into.

From his seat near the edge of the Meadow’s wall, he watched Lady Beaumont take Singer’s hands in hers and give some firm, kind advice. The woman seemed to be the sort of stock Singer would get along with. She presented herself as nothing but straightforward, perceptive, and slightly harsh.

Singer smiled, nodded, and hugged Lady Beaumont. After, they bid each other farewell, and for a moment between one person leaving and another coming to congratulate her, something fell over Singer. It wasn’t prominent by any means, but Varric knew loneliness in a crowded room.

Then, that loneliness forcefully hardened, and Singer met her next fan with a soft smile and undivided attention.

The crowd around Singer didn’t disperse for a long while. He supposed she only hung around the silk-stinking nobles and artists born from said silk-stinking nobles to refine her repertoire. Once she became elite enough, she’d vanish behind the red curtain of the stage the moment her performance was over. Varric had to chuckle. All these people who slapped their elven servants around and called to tear down alienages because they were dirty scrambled over each other to compliment an elf on her singing. Hypocritical assholes.

Varric didn’t doubt Singer knew it, too. It made him all the more suspicious. “Sorry, Singer,” he wanted to say, “but the revolutionist position has already been filled by a dirty blond mage. We don’t need to worry about another one.”

By the time Singer wandered over to Varric’s small table, the night had grown late, and the back of his head sang with alcohol and her lyrics. “Thank you for coming,” she said, wiping her hands with a damp cloth. “How did I do?”

“Do you really need to ask that?” Varric replied with a wry smile. She sat in the chair opposite of his and leaned back to examine him in a casual way. Maker, that was _his_ thing. Why did she have to go and do the same shit? Those evening blue eyes brushed against him unabashedly, and although she had a relaxed posture, she never truly let herself sink into comfort. Despite the company she kept, the life she lived, she did not feel those around her could be trusted enough to catch her if she slipped.

The thing was, though, people couldn’t always catch themselves.

Singer waved for some water. She set the cloth aside, shook her hands dry, and let out a sigh. “What, sad Hawke isn’t here?” asked Varric.

“No.”

“Sure seems like it. He wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry he had to miss tonight’s performance. Tevinter slavers don’t seem to appreciate what one does during the weekend.”

“Then I hope they are killed brutally.”

There was no humor in Singer’s voice. Varric paused, tapped his fingers against the table, and dared to press the conversation. “You ever had trouble with them, Singer?”

“Slavers simply deserve every bloody death imaginable.” She tilted her head toward a window to get more of the faint night breeze to touch her face. “Is that such a radical belief, Varric?”

“Oh, I imagine you have plenty of radical beliefs, but no, this isn’t one of them.”

A woman placed two cups and a pitcher of cool water at the table, curtseyed to Singer, and left. She poured for the both of them, her movements fluid. It made Varric finally ask the question he’d been itching to say for a few weeks now.

“Do you know how to fight, Singer?”

“Somewhat.” She took a drink. “I can get by, if need be.”

“Uh huh. Probably means you can kill a man with a napkin and a blunt spoon.”

“Either the napkin or the spoon; I don’t need both to get the job done. That’d be overdoing it otherwise.”

Singer finally grinned, and damn, Varric couldn’t stop himself from chuckling back. He tipped his cup toward her. “I’ll pretend this is full of pricey alcohol,” he said. “Cheers.”

She bumped her cup against his. They drank, and as Varric watched Singer from over the wooden rim of the cup, he understood why Hawke had fallen so hard for the performer.

But he also understood that more likely than not, Hawke would fall and find his chest pierced by the tip of a spear. The rest of the spear, directly connected or not, would lead back to Singer.

-

How had it come to this?

Isabela found herself asking the question as of late. She asked it with her daggers covered in slaver’s blood while sand from the Storm Coast _somehow_ managed to get in her tall boots. She asked it as the hot sun beat down in the courtyard of the Gallows and made her armpits sweat. She asked it as she laughed with her arms thrown over the shoulders of two Fereldan brothers while they celebrated killing bandits with Hanged Man swill.

And, of course, Isabela asked the question as she found herself trudging up fucking Sundermount in the middle of the night with damned bloody _Singer._

The full moon was what gave Singer away. She tried being sneaky—and she probably would have been sneaky—if Isabela hadn’t decided to scout out a place to find information on the relic. Well, the information was a bust, but spotting Singer slinking toward Kirkwall’s gates to the coast certainly provided an opportunity for something interesting.

And here they fucking were.

Singer was a clever little bitch, Isabela had to give her that. She bypassed Merrill’s Dalish clan who camped at the base of Sundermount and avoided any nasty little beasties, demonic or otherwise, on their way up. Isabela didn’t say much; she wanted to see where Singer headed despite the question pounding in her head. The elf was a mystery to all of them, Hawke included, though he pined over her enough to ignore some of the more glaring flags. Yes, yes, she was beautiful. For all their disagreements and quarrels, they _could_ agree on that much. Isabela had thought about what that large mouth of hers could do on more than one occasion.

They could also agree that Singer had…motives. The fact that she was good enough to not reveal her cards concerned (and intrigued) Isabela.

So maybe, _maybe_ this could show her something.

Singer protested Isabela coming, but she was distracted and in enough of a hurry to not fight her too much about it.

“Wait,” Isabela whispered while they made their way up the mountain. “You’re not going to sacrifice me to some god, are you?”

Singer lowly laughed and glanced back at Isabela. Her elven eyes glinted green in the bright moonlight. “Maybe. You were the one who wanted to come so badly.”

Isabela groaned. “I knew it. I’m _always_ getting myself into the shittiest situations.”

“Next time, leave people to their business.”

“Oh, dear, I could never do that. I’m too nosy.”

“Apparently.”

Singer wore leggings and a loose-fitting tunic that couldn’t have been keeping her very warm. Despite the summer temperatures, the night was chilly enough to make Isabela shiver if she thought too long about it.

They came to a rocky outcropping. It sparked a certain memory in Isabela’s mind. “You’ve been very dodgy about this whole thing,” she said. The ground leveled out, and if she reached out her hand, she could quite possibly touch the moon. Did it feel like dust? Or was it hard like one big rock?

“I wonder why.”

“And, well, since we’re being honest, you’re quite dodgy about everything. I _want_ to like you—I know you could set us up with some fancy Orlesian champagne from the Meadow—but there are too many…”

“Gray areas,” Singer finished. She walked a few paces ahead of Isabela, searching for something while her walk remained intent and sure.

“Exactly.” Isabela spread her arms out. “But we’re alone! Woman to woman, nothing but the Maker, the moon, and the stars to hear us talk. So come on! You can tell Isabela.”

Singer took a slight curve in the rough path they treaded upon. Isabela followed, half-ready to pull her daggers out at a moment’s notice. “And you don’t have to fill in _all_ the gray areas. One will suffice…for now.”

“Why, so you can run back to Varric and tell him all the juicy details?” Damnit, even sarcasm just made her voice sound sexier.

Isabela scoffed rather unconvincingly. “What? No.” Shit.

“Mm hm.” Singer splayed a hand near her shoulder. “You all talk as if I am dangerous because I have secrets. So what? Secrets aren’t _always_ dangerous. They’re just…secrets. Keeping them safe keeps me safe.”

She paused and pinned Isabela with her nocturnal eyes. A cooler breeze made her skin prickle. In the far, far distance, the sea beckoned Isabela with her call. “And if you want to know me so badly, then I must know you in return. Equally.”

Isabela’s chest constricted.

Singer began moving again after she scoffed. “All of you are so suspicious because you think that my secrets, my stories, are as bad as yours. They may be sad and confusing, but they do _not_ involve anything of immediate danger. Can you say the same, Isabela? A pirate who hasn’t left Kirkwall?”

“I lost my ship,” Isabela growled, annoyed that Singer’s words made her uncomfortable. “Can’t exactly sail the sea without one of those.”

“You’re a pirate. Steal one. Steal money to buy one. Become a legitimate captain and then return to piracy once nobody is there to stop you. There is a reason why you’re staying here. There is a reason why everyone you know is staying here, converging together into one tumultuous point. You need something, but you can’t do it alone, no matter how much you want it to be that way.”

Isabela pulled back her scowl and asked, “And _you?_ Why are you staying in Kirkwall then? You talk as though you have experience in the matter.”

“I do.” Singer gestured ahead of her, and Isabela faltered to a stop when she saw what sat at near the edge of the summit. This place. _This place._ It was familiar.

How had it come to this?

“Would it surprise you to hear that I am just…trying to find a way home?”

Sadness lanced through Singer’s melodic voice, turning it disjointed and raw.

“And this?” Isabela hissed, finally remembering to catch up to Singer. She roughly grabbed the elf’s shoulders before they could get too close to that forsaken altar. “This is a way home? Andraste’s tits, Singer! This—what are you even thinking of?”

Isabela was met with a cool gaze. Singer remained unfazed.

“I’m thinking that I want to go home.”

A silence lulled between them. Isabela swallowed and let her hands drop from Singer’s warm skin. “Where even is your home?”

Singer turned back around and continued. “I’m not sure. That’s the problem.”

“That’s the—what are you on about?” After a moment, Isabela groaned and hesitantly kept following. “So you decided to take a nice little trip to see a witch?”

“Oh, I doubt she’s even here anymore,” Singer sighed. They came to the altar where Isabela watched with her own two eyes as a scary old woman popped out from a locket Hawke had placed on it. Said woman then turned into a _dragon,_ wings and all _._ “This was a…a far hope. That’s why I didn’t want you to come, really, because it probably just wasted your time.”

She placed both hands on the stone slab. Isabela waited for demons to sprout out of the ground. Damnit. She felt a lot more fearless when there were _others_ who could take the brunt of the battle around.

“So sad, really. Can we go now?”

“You can go if you want.”

Isabela grumbled but stayed put. “Well, I can’t leave all by myself,” she muttered. “I bet it’s because of you that we aren’t being ripped apart by demons or spiders this very instant.”

Singer didn’t respond. She was still, listening to something Isabela couldn’t hear. The air might have changed, might have brushed intentionally through her black hair, might have carried a strange scent to it.

They _all_ floated the idea around during booze-fueled conversations about the woman. Though the apostates Isabela had unfortunately acquainted herself with didn’t try very hard to lie low, they at least didn’t have the bravery to become a public performer right out in the open.

Either Singer was stupid, or she was ballsy. And the sight of her ruled out the first possibility.

But the idea remained just an idea with nothing to go off of in the present situation. Singer stayed in silence for a short while longer, muttered something indecipherable under her breath, and lifted her palms off the altar.

“There,” she said, quirking her gray eyebrows at Isabela. “I’m done with my spooky ritual of doing squat shit while getting nothing. We can go home.”

Isabela let out a loud sigh of relief. “Thank the Maker.”

They started walking back. Isabela shot several glances Singer’s way, to the point where the elf felt them enough to finally address it. “What is it?” she drawled.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I’ve been trying to keep the question in—we all have. But I’m going to go mad if I don’t ask, especially after all _this.”_

“What’s the question?”

“Are you a mage?”

“I’m something.”

“Pfft. Everybody is _something._ I’m something, and I’m fucking terrific at being something, too. But I’m sure as hell not a mage, you deflective minx.”

“Well, Isabela,” said Singer as she kept her pace even and shoulders facing forward, “if I start crushing enemies from a hundred feet away and shoot lightning from my fingertips, then you’ll have your answer, won’t you?”

“At least make it look fantastic. Then the suspense and mystery will have been worth it.”

Singer chuckled, and it made the night less frightening. “I’ll try my best for you.”

“Thank you. And don’t forget Hawke, either. He’d be sorely disappointed if he missed out on a spectacle like that.” Isabela scoffed. “It’d probably make him even more attracted to you. That man has a few loose floorboards in his head if you know what I mean.” Her smile then turned vulpine. “But I have to admit, he is still a fine thing to look at, isn’t he?”

“Sure.”

“Sure? I tried to get in that man’s knickers on more than one occasion, but he _apparently_ has no interest in other…attractions.”

“You are more than an attraction, Isabela. You’re a force.”

She laughed. “As are you, it seems. More so than I—which isn’t something to be taken lightly. Because yes, I am a hurricane that draws all ships into my grasp if it pleases me. And by ships, I mean men. Women, too.”

Isabela absently realized that she hardly ever got to finish sentences like that. Most of the time, other people would cut off the joke. Her words sounded kind of strange spoken out loud. She’d been allowed to go on, though, as if they actually mattered.

Before Singer could say something that’d cause Isabela forget the point she had been trying to make, she held up a finger and said, “Since Hawke doesn’t want to be with _me—_ or anybody, really—it means he already has one person he wants to warm his bed.”

“I’ve seen his bed. There isn’t enough room for anybody else.”

Isabela couldn’t hold herself back from pouncing. “Because you’ve already _tried_ to fit? Ooh, tell me all the details. What’s he like? Is he heavy? Does he take care of you, or is he done in five bloody seconds?”

Singer tutted. “You had a really nice set-up going for you with innuendos and veiled references, but you ruined it.”

“I can’t help it,” Isabela whined, “I’m weak for the depraved.”

After a flat but ringing hum, Singer said, “I’ll only tell you if you promise not to immediately run and tell all your little friends about it.”

Isabela tossed her head back. “Aw, not fair!”

“Those are the rules.”

There was barely a moment’s pause. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone save for my dear diary.”

“You don’t keep a diary, Isabela.”

“Then all the better!”

Flashing a lazy grin that made Isabela linger on the curve of her mouth, Singer said, “Garrett Hawke is clumsy in a completely endearing way. But I don’t need him to be skilled. He laughs in bed, and he’s sure to ask if he’s not crushing me at least three times.”

“Expected, but nice to know. Keep going.”

Singer swiped at a few blades of grass on the incline beside them and began to pick away at them. “What else…Oh, he can make me feel good.”

“Thank the Maker,” Isabela praised. “I was seriously worried, honestly. I could have gone both ways with the man.”

Singer hummed again. The grass twisted and tore away in tiny plucks.

“I’m always one for a casual night or two with a willing partner,” Isabela drawled. She idly twirled one of her daggers. “So I have nothing against what you two are currently enjoying. Just be sure…” Shit, when did she get all soft for these people? For Hawke? Kirkwall really was ruining her. “Be sure that Hawke doesn’t think it’s anything more than it is. He’d be miserable and pouty if he got his heart broke, which makes him _not_ fun to be around. Believe me.”

“When was the last time he acted like that?” Singer asked amusedly.

“Well—alright, I haven’t seen him with a broken heart, but I _did_ have the painful experience of being around him when a slaver cut up one of his arse cheeks and Anders and Merrill weren’t around to heal him. He had to limp all the way back to Kirkwall with a stabbed bum. _Not_ fun.”

“Mm, I see. You’re comparing getting shanked in the butt to a broken heart.”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall try my hardest not to stab Hawke’s heart-butt.”

Isabela laughed. “That’s all I wanted to hear.”

-

“I swear on Andraste’s divine breasts, that’s what happened,” the pirate had yelled after her tale was put under scrutiny. Fenris didn’t believe _all_ of it, mostly Isabela’s explanation for finding Singer sneaking out. Intercepting confiscated pirate hats? Couldn’t she at least have put a little more credibility in her lies?

But, for all the pirate’s deceit and exaggeration, there remained a flourish of truth in the story.

Singer had gone to Sundermount, walked right up to that magic-cursed altar, and tried to do something dark. She _must_ have been a mage. What madness would compel anyone to do what she did otherwise?

Fenris did not care to admit that the performer’s voice was something to behold, which was why he made a reluctant show of going to the Meadow whenever it was her night to sing. He didn’t like what her songs dredged up inside of him, how they had him either staring wide-eyed at her on stage or down at the dark drink in his hand. And if she truly _was_ a mage, Fenris would not waste his time ogling at her while forgotten memories swirled in the back of his mind and deep, grieving fear wanted to spill out from him like bile.

Her powers must have been fueled by some sort of magic. Deceptive, nuanced magic that had everyone fooled. Fenris would not be among them. No, he would resist, and if at all possible, he would expose Singer for the maleficar she was.

These swirling, dark thoughts were rudely interrupted by the same maleficar in question standing outside of Danarius’— _his—_ mansion, instructing workers to load up garbage onto a cart. It was evening time, but there was still plenty of light left, which gave Fenris a full view of Singer to rage over.

As usual, her odd dresswear made her stand out, with a short-sleeved olive-green blouse rolled up at the cuffs and tucked into slim black trousers. Her unnaturally perfected hair set Fenris further on edge. The Tevinter mages always conjured useless magic to preen themselves.

“What,” he growled when he stalked near enough, “are you doing at my home, witch?”

“Ah, Fenris,” Singer plainly replied. He seethed when she barely bothered him with a glance. “Don’t call me witch; it’d give me a bad reputation, and I have so many better things planned to cause a greater scandal than that.”

She didn’t balk when he came right up to her, scowling and inches away from drawing his sword. The color of her eyes only amplified the neutral stare that matched his glower. “To answer your question,” Singer said, uncompromising in their close proximity, “Guardsman Aveline mentioned that your place was a pigsty even though you cleared it out months ago. She said she would pay anyone who took it upon themselves to do the job you couldn’t.” Her brow twitched, giving way to some sympathetic expression. Fenris wanted to vomit. “Which is understandable after all you’ve been through, I might add.”

Finally stepping back, Singer gestured to the workers. “I put a worker’s notice on the Chanter’s board for six able-bodied people looking to make a gold piece for doing a few hours’ work of housecleaning.”

His suspicion only grew. “And _why_ would you take something so mundane and dirty upon yourself?”

“I’m not getting myself dirty, though,” Singer promptly said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am merely supervising.” The same brow furrowed a fraction, moving along with a frown at the corner of her lip. “You left your door unlocked. Do you need me to have another lock put in? I know someone—”

 _“Enough.”_ Fenris wanted to close the gap Singer had created to intimidate her, but he could not do so in Hightown, not with their prized performer. Instead, he clenched his fists and mustered all the venom in his voice as he could. “What are your real intentions? Come to loot a magister’s abandoned home in order to gain his secrets?”

Singer didn’t react to the accusation, and it unnerved Fenris more than it should have. How could she stay so collected? Was it because she held guilt? Or none at all?

Eventually, she let out a small, “Ah,” and ran fingers through her hair, mussing it a bit. “This…looks bad, doesn’t it? I’m sorry. I thought I would be helping. I took the opportunity and only hired refugees because they’re still in a tight spot. They eagerly obliged despite the strangeness of the job and place.”

Fenris forced his shoulders to stay upright and not hunch. If Singer was trying to make him feel bad, it wouldn’t work. “I provided the cart, and they got to work. I think they’re almost done, too. Now, this—” Singer pointed to the cart loaded with mostly garbage but a few intact vases and furniture— “is either going to be burned or pawned. Do you want me to tell them that the profits made should come back to you? Or can they keep it?”

He glared. And glared. Singer stayed impassive. He glared some more.

“…They can keep the money. I have no use for vile magister shit.”

Without missing a step, she nodded once and said, “Good. They’ll be happy to hear that.”

“And why do you care about these people? You have your fancy room at a fancy inn in the fanciest part of Hightown. Why would you concern yourself with them?” _With us,_ he almost wanted to say.

Singer’s gaze sharpened, frown growing on that wide mouth of hers. Maker, she was all teeth when she grinned and sang. Had to have something big enough to store everything, he supposed.

“Sounding like a heartless bitch and acting like one are two different things.”

The sound of the sudden curse word mildly surprised Fenris, and he realized that in his blindness, his careless tongue had gotten him into the exact situation they all dreaded: under Singer’s examination. At first, he had been terribly discomforted by her undressing eyes; it reminded him of all the Tevinter magisters and their underlings tittering and poking at his brands like he was some exotic pet. But, later, Fenris realized Singer looked nowhere else but directly into his very own eyes. Perhaps that was the most frightening of all. She searched in a place he dared not disturb for fear of awakening only more pain.

“It is not hard to care, Fenris.” His very own name betrayed him; it whipped across his skin in cold lashing. “To see those suffering and do nothing makes me the very same as those who perpetuate suffering itself.”

He mulled over Singer’s words.

“I…see.” Fenris shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I apologize. But my suspicions about you still remain. That you must surely understand.”

“Oh, yes, I understand.” Amusement tinged Singer’s tone. “Isabela is one to gossip, and my character certainly doesn’t help my case for innocence. But at least you don’t talk under any pretense; I appreciate the honesty.”

She began walking toward the open doors of the mansion. Fenris watched her but didn’t follow. After a brief conversation with the workers, who had gathered around her like moths to the light of a lantern, they all shook her hand and headed off to take the heavy-laden cart to Lowtown. Once they had departed down the cobbled street, Singer shifted back toward Fenris. “Come on. I at least want to see your expression from your newly cleaned place. We can talk inside.”

Slowly, Fenris followed Singer into the mansion. He immediately noticed that just the smell was different. The faint stench of dust and decay no longer hung in the stale air. Now, pleasant incense burned in the foyer, and the windows had been opened to let in the fresh evening breeze. He struggled to keep himself severe.

The floors were washed and swept, crates removed, furniture uncovered. Fenris never had any inclination to clean the mansion—let it be a monument to Danarius’ filth. But he had to admit, it felt nice to not have dust cling to his feet as he walked, and he no longer needed to side-step unused supplies or avoid particularly nasty rooms.

“They did good work, didn’t they?” Singer said over her shoulder. “Cleaned up everything quickly.”

Fenris noted a new rug here, throw pillows there, but he didn’t stop until he saw a painting in the large room beneath the stairs that led to his bedroom. “Apparently,” he drawled, “you did have your hand in this as well.”

Singer, who was a few steps up the right staircase, paused and leaned against the gleaming wooden railing. She allowed herself to smirk. “This place was absolutely barren. My tasteful sensibilities couldn’t let it go on a moment longer.”

Fenris snorted but continued to regard the painting. It was not big, nor was it anything special. The canvas depicted a decadent vase of flowers. Their bright colors merged and contrasted with each other, whites and pinks and blues and yellows and purples. Fenris didn’t know the names of any of these flowers save for the roses, but he found himself enjoying the sight. Before he could control his facial muscles, he smiled.

Then, remembering the guest who organized it all, Fenris wiped the joy from his face and abruptly spun around. “I…thank you,” he said somewhat lamely.

Singer didn’t make fun of his terrible reaction like the others would have. She only dipped her head.

“You’re welcome. There’s a bit more in your room.” She continued on, her clear voice carrying throughout the mansion. “I had them get rid of all the empty wine bottles, so I apologize if you were saving them for something.”

“Other than to throw at the wall when I’m bored, no.”

She lightly laughed. “Good. The hearth was also cleaned, and I ordered more firewood to be delivered to your mansion by the ninth bell tomorrow, so be sure that you’re here to take it. Firewood is cheap right now because it’s the middle of summer, but it’s bound to get colder when autumn and winter come.”

Dryly, Fenris said, “It seems I am becoming more and more indebted to you.”

“I am aware of what debt is, Fenris, and this is not debt.”

It was kindness. If Singer was maleficar, then, it would be all the more difficult to put an end to her.

Singer opened the doors to his bedroom. The curtains had been replaced and pulled back to let in the fading sunlight. The scent of fresh linen made Fenris’ tense shoulders relax. There was yet another damned rug on the floor, and his small table and chairs sat atop it.

“I brought a second painting,” Singer said. “I hope you like it.” She gestured to the framing on the wall as she moved to check and make sure that dust had been removed from the windowsill. She began to hum one of her foreign tunes.

This one hung to the right of his bed. It was larger, but not ostentatiously so, and framed by dark wood. The painting was of the sea, churning and crashing against black rocks. Sun filtered through stormy clouds, and birds dotted the horizon. He gaped at it for several moments, yet again stunned by the detail and care put into each brush stroke. The ocean water lightened as it broke upon the rocks, turning from that deep blue-gray to lighter aqua. And though the storm clouds were dark in the appropriate places, the way the sun’s light hit them made the clouds turn yellow and orange and pink in other areas.

“This is…exquisite,” he breathed.

“It is, isn’t it?” Singer said back. She came up beside Fenris, hands clasped loosely behind her back. “And before you ask, no, I didn’t pay a high price for it or the other painting. I met a man who frequents the Meadow. Vellow Wainwright. He’s a struggling artist looking for recognition. I promised that I would be at one of his art galleries next week in order to attract more clients for him if I could take a few of his paintings at a low cost. I kept a couple, but the other two are here.”

Singer leaned in a touch to analyze the painting more closely. Fenris gave her a sidelong glance. Her eyes were alive with what he could only describe as a calm passion. “I love his work. There’s not quite a prominent style he can fall under right now, but from where I’m from, it’s…oh, somewhere between Neoclassism and Romanticism. He cannot make up his mind at the moment. I’m excited to see what it sculpts into, though. I hope the style takes off in the artistic community while he’s still alive.”

“Those sound like Tevinter phrases,” Fenris said, bristling. Singer didn’t react.

“They may be.”

“Where are you from, then?”

The question stilled the air. Singer didn’t look away from the painting.

“Somewhere far away. Somewhere that I miss. That’s why I went to Sundermount. Varric likes to talk about all your tales and adventures, and his mention of it and Asha’bellanar sent me searching.” Singer paused and took a breath. Fenris listened intently before he passed his final judgement. “I did it a little rashly, I’m aware, and that got all of you gossiping. But I went because I’m desperate.”

“Desperate how?”

“I came to Kirkwall through magical means. Those specific means, however, are beyond me. I don’t know how to get back.” Sadness softened Singer’s mouth. “I thought that witch lady would have answers.”

Silence stretched between them.

“…You cannot travel back by normal means?”

“No.”

The single syllable sent a finality between the conversation. Fenris did not want to incur Singer’s freezing wrath by pressing more. She seemed honest enough. It all could have been an elaborate act, but he had yet to find more proof for a solid accusation.

“In the meantime,” Singer sighed, “I’m going to build a life here.”

“You believe you can do both at once?”

Fenris not only asked for her sake.

“Why not?”

Singer shifted to Fenris, smiling again. “Are you appeased? You’re not going to strike me down on this freshly-cleaned floor?”

With a scoff, Fenris replied, “Not today, at least.”

That was enough for Singer. She nodded and wandered over to the made bed. “Hawke let it slip that your tattoos pain you.”

“Under what circumstance, I wonder?” he drawled. It was no secret that Singer and Hawke had a relationship, however undefined it might have been.

“We were having tea,” she simply replied, taking out the force behind his snark. “But it got me thinking.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“Sometimes. But more often than not, no.” Singer traced a finger over the bedding. Fenris watched her every movement. “My mother was sick a while ago, and the treatment for her illness caused her skin to become incredibly sensitive. Just laying down or putting on clothes hurt her. It was recommended that she use silk sheets to help her with the pain. You see, silk causes less friction on your skin unlike other fabrics. I’m not sure it will be the same for you, but it can’t hurt to try.”

With a rising sense of dread, Fenris walked up to the bed and saw that the two pillows against the headboard were not only new, but they were encased in silk covering. The bedcover underneath was also silk, as well as the sheet crisply folded back a quarter of the way down on the mattress.

“What did you do?” he snapped. “Silk? Is this not expensive? Are you attempting to lavish me with inane gifts for some personal agenda?”

“You seem to forget that I sing for many people who are all too willing to please me,” Singer said lightly. He glared at her, but she, of course, ignored it. “I performed for a visiting Antivan merchant who dealt in silks. He had already showered me with these gifts on your bed long before I made the decision to put them to good use. Another lord had already given me silk bedding, so I had no reason to keep them. And no, I am not doing this to get on your good side. I’m doing it because I remember my mother being in too much pain to begin with, so just a small remedy made all the difference for her.”

Singer squarely faced Fenris. He couldn’t pull away from her pinning eyes even if he tried. “You seem to be the type of person who doesn’t sleep well at night. The silk sheets might not help with what troubles you, but they may at least make laying down a bit more bearable.”

She dipped her head once more. “I’ll take my leave. Do try to keep this place clean. If you can’t manage it, I know a few women who’d be happy to make some extra money coming every few days to tidy up. And, if you do like the silk, stop by the inn during the day. I have a few extra bolts of it sent from the same merchant when he heard I worked as a seamstress. I could make you some clothing that’ll be gentler to you than what you…currently wear.” Singer poked at the spiked metal on Fenris’ shoulder. He chuckled.

Stepping back and heading for the door, Singer put a hand up and wiggled her slender fingers. “Goodbye, Fenris.”

“Farewell,” he said with a slight bow she didn’t see. Was it wrong of him to want her to stay? To play cards and drink and converse in a clean room? So he didn’t have to be…didn’t have to be…

Quietly, Fenris added, “And…thank you.”

Singer did not respond. Her hum lingered in the mansion long after she had departed.


	6. Silks and Stories

“Maker’s balls, I’m about to slide right off this bed!” Hawke complained, wriggling against the sheets. “How can you stand it?”

“Every time you come, you say that,” Singer said while she poured them water from a pitcher. She stood naked in her room, and Hawke watched her from his spot on the bed. Sweat still clung to his forehead, but the open window let in some air. The curtains, while closed, shifted and stirred. “If it is such a big issue for you, then you don’t have to come back.”

Realizing Singer applied her humor through a factual tone was like making a profound, new discovery. Once he spotted it, he found that more often than not, Singer joked. She also had a great care for those around her, and part of him wondered if she took up this position at the inn just to have the chance to use her growing sphere of power to help others.

Hawke laughed and put a hand behind his head. “And deprive you of my irresistible physique? Sing, you deserve all of _this.”_ He proudly gestured to himself in all his nude glory. Singer tossed her head back and laughed, then sauntered to his side of the bed and gave him a goblet.

“I do, don’t I?”

Sitting up, he drained the goblet in one go while Singer sipped on hers while relaxing on the edge of the mattress. With her lovely back to him, he could admire the curve of her shoulders and neck, the sinuous groove of her spine, and the way the gray hair on the nape of her neck sloped down into a meticulous, diamond-shaped point.

The day had not been kind to Hawke. The sight of that Qunari Saarebas setting himself ablaze…he wanted to wipe it from his mind, and Singer created a lovely escape from the fresh memory. But the moment he paused, the moment he took a time to let his thoughts drift, he saw that _damned Qunari_ crumpling under flame, not making a sound while waves of the Storm Coast crashed upon the rocks.

The rest of the day became blurred. Journeying back, confronting that vile Chantry sister, pleading with Grand Cleric Elthina to fucking _do_ something but getting only passive sympathies in return…nothing became clear until he found himself knocking on Singer’s door. When she smiled at the sight of him, he found purchase once more in the Waking World.

To distract himself, Hawke moved to press kisses right above Singer’s left shoulder blade. She hummed, and though they hadn’t spent each other not that long ago (“Don’t you dare get your spunk on my silk sheets,” Singer had warned between each writhing gasp, giving Hawke another one of her particular words that he’d certainly have to share with Isabela later), he found himself tugging Singer back.

“Hang on, hang on,” she chastised. Singer took one last drink from her goblet and set it on the nightstand before she allowed herself to fall back into Hawke’s embrace. He languidly dipped down to touch her inner thigh, and his mouth latched onto a satin nipple. Fingers twined through his mussed hair, and for a moment, he thought he could retreat for just a few minutes longer—

“Garrett.”

Shit. _That_ tone alone told him he’d been caught.

Hawke gave her breast one last suck in feeble attempt to let Singer sink into temptation. When no moan or gasp came as a reply, he let his head slump onto her chest. “Yes?” he nonchalantly inquired, somewhat muffled by his current position. Singer didn’t remove her fingers from his hair. A thumb gently circled against his scalp.

“What happened today?”

The surge of emotions came up in such a torrent that Hawke almost broke down weeping right then and there. He scrunched his eyes shut, breathed in deep, and then released all the air in one big sigh. It helped contain and control, helped his voice stay even.

“Same shit,” he said, and without truly thinking, he went to wrap his arm around Singer’s front as best he could. She didn’t protest. “I learned a valuable lesson today: _never_ trust Chantry sisters with terrible haircuts.”

Singer hummed. The pleasant sounds reverberated in her chest, and Hawke took it in like a remedy. “Sister Petrice,” she stated. He froze, eyes shooting open, and shifted so he could stare at Singer.

“How did you know?”

A hand slid down so it cupped his cheek. Singer replied, “I…had a concerned Chantry sister who called herself Petrice come to the inn a few days back. She said my soul was at stake for singing such…oh, what was it? ‘Debauched’ songs.”

Hawke let out a shocked scoff. “The nerve of that woman! What did you say? Please, please, Sing, tell me you sent her off with her robes all twisted.”

She smirked. “I am an honest person, Garrett.”

“That you are.”

“And so I said the Maker also frowned upon those in sanctified positions to have such unholy hairstyles that it hurt to look upon.” He guffawed, head dropping onto her chest again. “I recommended a salon in Hightown to her and sent her on her way.”

They shook with loud laughter. Hawke’s was awfully terrible compared to Singer’s. Hers reflected the voice she captivated so many with; it tumbled out in waves, but there could be no meekness about it. He took a small amount of pride knowing that she did not laugh this way with the others.

“That is _amazing,”_ he managed to choke out. “Maker, Sing, that’s amazing.”

“I thought you’d like knowing that,” she grinned. Her knees curled up so Hawke could draw closer to her, secured and relaxed. “So, what did that greasy-haired bitch do to you? Want me to kill her? It’d be for the best.”

“I imagine it would be,” Hawke mused. He adjusted himself so he could rest his head in the crook of Singer’s neck and not slowly force all the air from her lungs. “That woman hates the Qunari. Long story short, she tried to set us up so the Chantry would be _compelled_ to act against those in the compound. I saw…” Hawke swallowed. “I saw something I would have preferred not to see.”

“I’m sorry, Garrett.”

Normally, he would have sprung back with some playful retort to assure that everything was fine and grand. No need to worry about Hawke! He had all his shit together! Nothing ever got him down!

But Singer held him close and gave no pretense. Hawke let himself lie beside her in silence, and as the scene of the Ketojan setting himself on fire repeated over and over in his brain, Singer’s soft hums broke through the open-eyed nightmare. Her skin smelled like whichever fancy perfume or bath oil she used for the night. He couldn’t place where the scent came from, but it was woodsy and sweet.

“I like this one,” Hawke murmured, and he realized that he was halfway to the Fade.

“Which what?”

“Your perfume. I like it.”

A soft laugh. “Thank you.”

“Should I be on my way?” he asked, preparing to pull himself from Singer and trudge back to the hovel. It was a simple enough question, but it was one he had not asked before. Typically, they spent less than an hour together during sporadic times of the week, perhaps tea or lunch after. Then Hawke left—because Hawke was always the one to leave—with a kiss and a grin, happier for the rest of the day and eager to find another time to see Singer again.

This question had connotations Hawke did not expect himself to possess.

A quiet moment passed between them. In the street below, hooves and carriage wheels clacked against the cobblestone, and ambient music crept through the floorboards of the room.

“Do you want to be on your way?”

He couldn’t keep himself from huffing in amusement. Ah, those typical Singer responses would never cease to amaze him. So very vague, so very deflective. She had to be aware of what others thought first in order to construct an appropriate opinion. It could be charming or frustrating, depending on the mood and the topic.

“Do you want _me_ to be on my way? I asked you first.” Hawke spoke with no small amount of childish petulance. Singer’s chest rose as she went to say something in reply, but he held up a hand. “Ah-ah, if you are going to keep up with the back-and-forth until I get tired and finally say what I actually want to say, then do not speak at all.”

“And if I said you were making me mad because you aren’t saying what you want to say in the first place?”

“And if I said that I think you should say what I want you to say because it’s what I want to say even though I’m hesitant to say it—”

Singer grabbed Hawke’s jaw and shut him up with a kiss. He let out a half-surprised, half-pleased noise, which then turned full-pleased as Singer sunk herself down on top of him. “Eee, you just can’t help yourself, can you?” she laughed, breath tickling his skin. Hawke delightedly noted the foreign drawl that entered her tone, subtle but clear. Singer rarely let her guard down enough to have it slip through. He said nothing on the matter. She already hid enough; Hawke wouldn’t actively force her to hide more.

Pretending to be strained, Hawke clutched at Singer’s sides. “No, I cannot,” he rasped out dramatically. “It is…in my blood…”

She pushed back strands of black hair from his forehead. “Well,” Singer said more softly, which caused Hawke to open his eyes. He was immediately caught up in the pulling current that existed in Singer’s half-lidded gaze. “I want you to stay, blood and all. If you can stand the silk sheets, that is.”

Hawke didn’t realize he had lifted his hand to stroke Singer’s cheekbone with a knuckle until he watched it happen. Singer did not lean into the touch, but neither did she pull away. “I think,” he whispered, surprised by the crack that fissured through the words, “I’d like that. And should you hear a thump on the floor in the middle of the night, worry not; it’s simply poor me having slid right off the bed like a wet fish.”

“Then I shall endeavor to hold you tight so you don’t slip away.”

Hawke liked the sound of that.

-

Carver waited for Dear Big Brother by the front entrance of the inn. The ninth bell had just tolled, and if he didn’t hurry his ass up, they were going to be late to the meeting with the viscount. Honestly, with the Templars basically clawing at their coattails, Carver had no idea how Hawke continued to function like he did. It was inane. It’d get him killed. It’d get _all_ of them killed.

Of course, Carver told him such, but did he listen? No. Nobody to listened to him. Carver bloody Who? Never heard of the man!

Hawke came sauntering out with such a smug look that it made Carver want to slam his head into solid stone for five minutes straight. “Have a fun evening?” he immediately snapped. “Mother was worried sick. She about made me round up Varric and Merrill and Isabela to come hunting for you. Thought you were killed or captured, she did. I had to calm her down, tell her you said you were going to see bloody Singer.”

“And if I _had_ been captured or killed,” said Hawke, fastening the last of his strappings to him, “you would have felt utterly ridiculous, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s not the point,” Carver hissed back. They began walking down the street and to the Viscount’s Keep. “You need to be careful! We can’t be keeping an eye on you at all times—”

“—Did I ever say I needed to be watched over?”

Carver growled. He wanted to tear his hair out. From his pocket, Hawke drew a ripe red apple. “Singer sends her warmest regards. She misses you at her performances.”

He swiped the apple from Hawke’s hand. “Yeah, well, I doubt my absence is _that_ noticed.”

“That woman doesn’t miss anything. You think she’d forget about your sulking face?”

Heat rose to Carver’s cheeks. “It’s not—I don’t _not_ like her singing…it’s bloody beautiful.”

“Then why don’t you tell her that at the next performance, eh?”

“And have to watch you make big stupid lovey faces at her the whole time? No thank you.”

“Chin up, Carver! You can even sit at a different table! And besides, if you stay far, far away from your handsome brother, you might get a chance with one of the girls that work there. I’m so sorry—I can’t help attracting their attention.” Hawke simpered his lower lip for good effect. Carver rolled his eyes.

“Would you be saying that with Singer nearby?”

“What? She does the exact same thing! It comes _naturally_ for people like us.”

Maker, the ninth bell had barely rung, and Carver was already bone-tired from hearing Hawke talk. “And would it come _naturally_ if she found out you were a mage?”

Hawke faltered. Good. Carver took a little pride in that.

He huffed and caught up. “Andraste’s ass, Carver, why don’t you say it a little louder? Then it can reach Lowtown!”

“It already _has_ reached Lowtown. And Hightown, and Darktown, and the _Gallows.”_ Carver had the decency to lower his voice while he said, “Singer is a good woman. A little odd—a little intimidating—but who knows how she’ll react when she finds out? Because she _will_ find out. I know how none of you can keep up a disguise. She may turn you in.”

“Singer wouldn’t do that,” Hawke responded, humor gone.

“And how can you be certain? You’ve only rutted with the woman.” Carver then leered at his brother. “Or have you developed feelings for her? Maker, no, don’t tell me you have. That just makes all of this so much worse.”

“No feelings. None. We just know how good each other’s company is.”

_Hawke lied,_ Carver could hear Varric’s disembodied storyteller voice commenting in a gravely aside.

“Do you think anybody else cares if you actually have feelings or not before they decide to do something terrible to her? It’s not like you keep your company a secret. I’m not sure that intelligent brain of yours has realized that you may be putting Singer in danger.” Bitterly, he added, “If she _isn’t_ the danger, that is.”

“I am not in the mood to receive a lecture from you of all people,” Hawke snipped.

“Too afraid to admit that your younger brother has a point?”

Hawke grumbled, “I shouldn’t have given you that apple.”

-

“I have two colors to choose from. I assume you most likely want your underwear in black. I can also make trousers in black and then the top in white. Does that sound alright to you?”

“Er…”

Fenris had difficulty responding due to the fact that Singer’s measuring tape wrapped _right_ around his waist. He couldn’t decide whether to panic or lash out, so he stood there in uncertain paralysis. He tried to keep his breathing even, but the sensation of tape and fingers faintly brushing against his skin made Fenris think about Danarius, about the magisters, _using him—_

“Fenris?”

He sharply looked down at Singer, who crouched on one knee, and he took in her wide, observant features. She was not Danarius. She would not hurt him.

Then why did sickness roil inside his stomach?

“Yes,” Fenris replied, swallowing when the response came out dryly. “Just…be quick about this. I don’t want to stand here too long.”

“Of course.”

Singer did not walk this earth obtusely. She read Fenris’ discomfort the instant she gazed upon him. He didn’t act this way when she took measurements for his shirt. Fenris clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

In the other room, Hawke, Varric, and Isabela loudly laughed over some joke, and a moment later, Merrill piped up that somebody needed to explain what was so funny to her. They stunk up the main chamber while he suffered in her bedroom getting measurements. He would have preferred to be with them, but after Singer mentioned her offer to Hawke and Hawke confronted him about it…well, here they were.

“I’m going to take the next measurement,” Singer calmly spoke, not commenting on his tense state. “I’m going to measure your inner leg. It will last about four seconds.”

Fenris tightly nodded. Singer took the measuring tape and quietly counted the seconds aloud. On the fourth second, the tape lifted, and she muttered a number. “Are you settling well? With them?” Singer inquired. “I’m also going to measure the outer thigh, now. It’ll take about the same time.”

“Define your meaning of ‘settling,’” Fenris responded, consciously keeping track of the seconds. “If I am tolerating most of them because they are a means to an end, then yes.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” she tutted. “You like them, admit it. And I’m going to measure the width of your upper thigh, right here—five seconds.”

The tape lightly snaked around Fenris’ thigh. He caught himself from jerking away from the touch, but instead he tapped his finger to the rhythmic counting of Singer’s neutral voice. After five seconds, the tape dropped, and she memorized another number.

_“…Some,_ maybe,” Fenris replied after he remembered the original conversation he and Singer were having.

“Oh, so you mean excluding Merrill and Anders. Fair enough. They’re mages, after all.”

Fenris waited for Singer to mention that Hawke was also a mage, but she did not speak of it. Hm. He either did successfully keep it from her, or she avoided the fact entirely.

“They are not simply _mages,”_ he spat lowly. His body clenched, and this time, it was not from the deep-rooted terror in the back of his mind. “One is a blood mage, and the other is an abomination.”

Then, in a jolt of shock, it dawned on Fenris just what he had said aloud.

Without pause, Singer said, “I’m measuring the whole of your outer leg, now. Five seconds. One, two, three, four, five.”

Once she was done, the warning that entered her voice cut through Fenris.

“You should be careful who you say that to. Templars do not only take mages; they can legally arrest anyone who knew of their powers and willfully hid it. And Fenris, have you considered the fact that _you_ are magical?”

The biting retort died in Fenris’ mouth when he thought of Danarius and the curse the mage had branded upon his skin. The sickness in his stomach returned.

“Inner leg, now. I’m going to be getting very close to you, but I’ll make it quick.” Singer’s voice returned to that unbroken calm. “Six seconds. If you—”

“Just get on with it,” he snapped, then immediately regretted his harsh words.

Singer did not react. She stretched the tape against the length of Fenris’ leg, but she made sure not to physically have her fingers or the tape touch him in the more sensitive areas. His mouth went dry from that rise in terror and nausea, but he would never live down vomiting on Singer, so he stifled it. She counted and, as she had before, finished by the sixth second.

She took measurements for his knees and calves. Her counting filled the room. Finished, Singer leaned back to say to Fenris, “Okay, just a couple more, then you’ll never have to be measured by me again. But this is going to be the most uncomfortable.”

For the first time, a frown twitched at the corner of her wide mouth. Singer understood. Of course she would. Fenris couldn’t make sense of the turmoil inside him and the look on her face. He settled on a glare, though it didn’t have much strength.

“You need to measure my crotch,” Fenris muttered bitterly. “I understand. Do it, and let’s be done.”

“Five seconds. You’ll feel a bit of pressure from the tape.”

Fenris stared straight ahead and breathed in and out. His eyes landed on a painting of a young woman picking flowers in a field. Clouds littered the sky behind her. Her long, simple dress swept up with the wind, and one of her hands kept her sunhat on atop her head. A basket of flowers hung in the crook of her shoulder, and the woman’s half-turned head showed mischievous, dark eyes, which peered into Fenris.

“I’m done.”

Singer had him sit down to take a final measurement on the side of his hip. Then it was over, and she moved to her writing desk to jot down the numbers. Fenris began to put his clothes back on, ignoring the familiar pain of armor against his skin.

“I should have them to you soon,” Singer said while she wrote. Sunlight filtered in through the window and washed over her.

“Fine.” Fenris buckled his armor. He stole an awkward glance at her. “And…you have my thanks.”

When she turned back to him, she smiled. “You’re welcome. I’m happy to put some spare silk to good use.”

As Singer moved back, her face became guarded again. “Just…have a care, Fenris. Though you may condemn mages, you must accept that you are, in some way, magical yourself.”

He glowered reproachfully. “Nonsense.”

“You bear lyrium markings given to you by a Tevinter magister. Should they find out, they would liken you to a dangerous magical artifact. You’d be removed from society. Studied, even.”

Fenris’ upper lip curled. More laughter reverberated from the other room, everyone unaware of the conversation between Singer and him. He braced himself to not be cowed by the blunt sincerity in her eyes, the truth in her words. A pit of slow fear began to form in his stomach, bringing back the rise of nausea. It was because of Danarius that Fenris could not even be _touched_ by a woman and her measuring tape without feeling vile.

“You speak as though you know their intentions,” he said accusatorily—but not overwhelmingly so.

“It’s not hard to figure out their intentions,” Singer said with a light scoff. “Mages, bad. Magey things, also bad. Though you are not a mage yourself, you are a product of magic.”

His temper rose. “By no choice of my _own.”_

Then there it was: unclouded compassion.

She spoke so softly that it could not have been a false statement.

“I know, Fenris.”

The scent of tea Singer served them earlier drifted from her, mixed with roses. He might have been mistaken, but Fenris watched a glimmer of hesitation pass over her face. Then it faded, and Singer moved to the door. Before she opened it, however, she paused and glanced back at him, body similar to the young woman in the painting. Her eyes were much more serious.

“I was a pet, too,” she quietly confessed.

Fenris did not speak in reply.

“Once. A very long time ago.”

A slave, then, or something of the sort. Fenris had his suspicions. It did not give the total truth, but it was a start.

Singer’s eyes hardened. She lifted her chin. Passion carefully simmered underneath her well-kept composure.

“You are nobody’s pet, Fenris. You are nobody’s thing. Kill anyone who says otherwise.”

Fenris almost smirked.

“That, my lady, we can agree on.”

She smiled back, and the instinct within Fenris wholly confirmed that Singer was a dangerous creature indeed.

-

“Come in, come in! Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” Merrill gushed. She hastily stepped aside to allow Singer to enter her home. “I am _so_ sorry for the mess. I probably should just begin cleaning all the time, shouldn’t I? Because visitors come unexpectedly more often than not.”

“If only there was a little contraption that people could simply pluck from their pockets and send an immediate message to the other person saying that they are coming to visit,” Singer spoke. She took off her sunhat and ran fingers through her coif of hair. Its color reminded Merrill of the gray rocks that jutted up on the coast, staunch and honest.

“That would be grand, wouldn’t it?” Merrill giggled. “It sounds like something mages in Tevinter would use.”

“And we don’t want to be Tevinter, do we?” Singer moved to the table and set down a basket that carried the scent of freshly baked bread. Merrill’s stomach grumbled, and she trailed behind.

“Oh, no, not at all. Though, I must admit, they do have a, er, a _different_ outlook on certain magics that I can’t help but admire. Slavery and general awfulness aside.”

“Blood magic, you mean.”

Merrill paused, then busied herself with gathering plates, although she only had two. Oh, but she was terrible at coming up with witty, deflective retorts. Nothing like Varric or Isabela or Singer herself. She scrambled through her anxious mind to land on something, anything, because she had Singer waiting on an answer and she didn’t want to disappoint—

“Ay, look at you, getting all worked up,” Singer lightly laughed. She pulled the bread out, followed by a bottle of pale wine, jam, wrapped cheese, grapes, cured meat, and two cups. Spreading linen on the table, Singer began setting everything out. “You don’t need to worry; I think all the animosity toward blood magic comes enough from Fenris and Anders. I won’t be adding to your burden.”

Plates in hand, Merrill stopped and stared at Singer, processing what she just heard. “So you don’t…you don’t…” She couldn’t get the words out. It was all too impossible. Even Hawke, who was nice toward Merrill, acknowledged his hesitancy with blood magic.

“You protect those you care about.” Singer waved a dismissive hand while she fixated on getting the cheese cut in perfect slices. Her hand moved meticulously, smoothly. “Our methods are all different.”

A relief that did not come from the breeze by open window cooled the back of Merrill’s neck. She breathed, bowed her head for a moment, and when it came back up, she smiled and said, “Thank you, Singer. I needed to hear that.”

Singer hummed and continued preparing the delightful spread. “It must get lonely here, sometimes,” she spoke. “Are you doing alright being away from your clan?”

“It hurts to be without them, some days,” Merrill admitted. She placed the plates on the table. “But everything I do, everything I research, I do for them. One day, their mistrust will fade.”

“But what if that mistrust never fades?”

“It hasn’t stopped me yet, has it?” Merrill giggled, though an ache prickled in her chest.

“I’m sure whatever it is you’re trying to uncover—or recover, I should say—will be great,” Singer said evenly. She uncorked the wine, which Merrill surprisingly recognized. It was the kind she always left for them at their table whenever they made it to a performance. The wine didn’t have much alcohol in it, and it was fruity and light. Hawke mentioned that it was Singer’s favorite.

Merrill grinned, then turned a touch bashful. “Would you…would you perhaps like to see what I’m restoring?”

Singer contemplated the offer. “I wouldn’t mind. But let’s eat first. If you’re going to be a blood mage, you need to keep your body healthy. Can’t have a fainting elf on the battlefield because she missed lunch.”

“That’s very true, I suppose.” Merrill took a seat at the table with Singer, the lady who intimidated nearly almost everyone in some way or another, and found that she wasn’t exactly intimidating at all. Quiet, of course, and resigned, but to be honest, Merrill needed a quiet and resigned friend to talk to every once in a while. It helped bring her clarity and peace so far away from home.

Singer’s laugh was sweet, too, when she became more comfortable. And her teeth were quite pearly! How did she keep them so white?

“Baking soda,” Singer replied when Merrill inevitably asked. “I get some from the patisserie by the Meadow.” She scoffed. “I was quite surprised to find that they had such a thing in Kirkwall, but in a good way. I mix it with tooth powder and add some dried mint sprigs.”

“Sounds very intricate. Then again, you lead a very intricate life, don’t you?”

Her head tilted. “Do I?”

“Of course! You sing, you sew, you live at quite the fancy inn, you bring such lovely lunches like this to all of us, you keep your hair and teeth and clothes perfect, _and…_ ” Merrill leaned in, a giggle bubbling up, “you entertain a certain someone in bed.”

“More like he entertains me.”

Merrill flushed but laughed some more. Singer grinned and tossed back the rest of her wine in the cup. “You must have people throwing themselves at your feet on a daily basis. How—how do you manage it?”

“By stepping over them. Sometimes on them.”

They laughed some more. Once Merrill’s stomach had been filled with the most delicious food she ate in months, she invited Singer into her bedroom to look at the eluvian. “It means ‘seeing glass,’” Merrill explained. She wrung her hands nervously for some reason. Singer examined the eluvian, taking in all the details. “I cleansed it of the taint through blood magic,” she also added rather hurriedly. Singer’s expression did not change.

“Impressive. Do you know the next step you’re going to take in the process?”

“No—not yet.”

“And where, do you hope, will the eluvian lead you if you do restore it?”

Singer’s knowledge for a non-Dalish elf impressed her. Then again, Singer always managed to impress Merrill. “It’s a mystery,” Merrill said. “I don’t dare hope for a specific place, but I wouldn’t mind if it led to more history of Arlathan.”

“That history may be more disappointing than you imagine.”

“Nevertheless, it’s history, and it deserves preservation for my people—our people,” Merrill corrected. Singer’s lip quirked. “So much of it has been lost, and I will do anything to bring it back again.”

“Then I wish you the best, and I’ll do what I can to help your search.”

Merrill grinned. “Ma serannas, Singer.”

Watching Singer stand in front of the eluvian, silent and sure, conjured a silly thought Merrill occasionally entertained in her boredom. “You know,” she said slyly, “you remind me of an ancient Dalish figure.”

“Oh?” Singer had her back turned to Merrill, but her murky reflection in the eluvian portrayed an image that Merrill could only fantasize what the Elvhen looked like.

“Yes. Varenan. Our Voice. The voice of Elvhenan. Those musically inclined often evoke her name, for she led the people and even swayed the pantheon with her singing alone.”

“Is there vallaslin of her?”

“No, she was not part of the Evanuris, unfortunately. But there are a few stories.”

“Tell me of one.”

“Well…” Merrill shuffled her feet, internally scrambling to recall one, even though she had memorized them by heart since she was a little child. “During the ancient times, the great Elgar’nan’s fury threatened to destroy the land, and none could calm his tempest, not even the wise Mythal. Then, as though the stars themselves collected into a being, came Varenan. She sang to Elgar’nan with a voice unlike anything the Elvhen had heard, and it brought peace unto his soul.

“Awed by her singing, Elgar’nan commanded Varenan to sing for all his people, and it is said that not even the sun set for a week, too entranced by her voice to depart from the world for the night. She was beloved by all—and it drew the jealousy of the trickster god Fen’Harel. One night, when Varenan slept, he stole her away to have her captivating voice all to himself. But there was power in Varenan’s voice, and she freed herself through the magic she channeled in her song. Struck, Fen’Harel howled in pain and released Varenan, and he was forever cursed to never hear anything beautiful in the world again.”

Singer was silent several moments after Merrill finished. Then, “Poor Fen’Harel. What a terrible curse indeed.”

“Oh, no, no, you see, Fen’Harel is the Dread Wolf. He has caused nothing but misery and strife among the Elvhen. An attempt to steal Varenan away was an attempt to take a piece of the People’s heart. Now, we see those musically gifted in their clans to also be good luck, for they keep away any bad omens set upon us by the Dread Wolf.”

“Hm. Well, in any case, I’m honored you think of me that way.” Singer turned to Merrill and smiled. “I’ll try to live up to Varenan.”

The name rolled off Singer’s tongue without falter or mispronunciation.

A grand idea popped into Merrill’s head. She clapped her hands together, saying, “Oh! Oh, do you know what would be _wonderful?_ If you sang for those in the alienage! Right under the vhenadahl. They would absolutely love it.”

“Are you certain?” Singer asked. “I’d be willing, but I don’t want to offend any of the elves. They might see me as acting high and mighty. While they’re suffering in the alienage, I’m living it in Hightown, and singing to them is like me taking pity on their poor conditions.”

Merrill paused. A blush crawled across her cheeks. “Well…I hadn’t thought of it that way. Now I’m not quite so certain.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Singer smiled and adjusted the dark blue kerchief around her slender neck. “Perhaps I’ll sing one song and determine their reaction. If they throw rotten tomatoes at me, I’ll take it as my cue to leave.”

“If they throw anything at you, rotten or not, I’ll fight them myself,” Merrill said, putting up her fists. Singer chuckled.

“I don’t doubt you will. Shall we?”

Arm-in-arm, the two women left Merrill’s home and out to the vhenadahl. Singer had donned her sunhat again, and she drew the eyes of residents simply by walking. Merrill found a crate that wasn’t too decrepit for her to stand on underneath the shade of the great tree. Her nerves spiked—and she wasn’t even the one performing!

Singer, however, seemed undaunted.

“What should I sing?” she inquired. “You choose. Is there a song you particularly like?”

“Oh, the one about the, the wee dancer!” Merrill immediately replied, laughing. “I love that one.”

Singer grinned. “‘Tiny Dancer.’”

“Yes, that!”

“Alright, I’ll do my best.”

Merrill stepped back, clapping, and watched Singer start. Her voice quickly garnered the attention of bystanders, who flocked to Singer like bees to a sweet flower. It didn’t surprise Merrill. If Singer were anything like Varenan, she could enthrall anyone with her voice, from the lowliest spirit to the mighty Elgar’nan.

Her voice pitched and rose with the lyrics, echoing throughout the square. Elves who had heard her voice in their homes hung out the windows to watch, and a crowd gathered to listen. Singer transformed when her voice poured from her mouth, shedding her reserved demeanor for a person who swayed when she sang, who moved her arms with the music, who threw her head back when her voice reached impossible heights.

When Singer finished, she beamed, chest rapidly rising and falling, and she earned applause from nearly the entire alienage. Merrill spun around when she heard a particularly booming cheer from her left. Hawke, Varric, Carver, and Aveline had found their way into the crowd and hollered their praise.

Singer, seeing Hawke, took her hat off and bowed to him. He shouted for another, and the sentiment was quickly picked up by the crowd. Singer obliged to the demand. Her voice drenched the humid summer air, lingering, spreading, sweetening.

Merrill swore the vhenadahl’s branches swayed in a non-existent breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Tiny Dancer"](https://open.spotify.com/track/69sJBJdGogAYV74hmB0ORK?si=Q0A5V8oRQBq5bMrPaZaolg)


	7. An Improper Business Venture

He had met her at a table on the second floor of the Meadow, near a window with a cool breeze drifting between the two of them. It was meant to be a formal meeting, so he wore something other than his armor, though the fabric around his shoulders was too tight, and the collar of the tunic itched at his dry throat.

To quench it, Sebastian Vael took a quick drink of water in a goblet. Something hard and cold clacked against his teeth, which only added to the surprise of the water’s frigid temperature. He made a noise and pulled the goblet back to inspect it.

“What’s this? Er, if I may ask? I’ve never seen…is it ice? Floating around in my drink.”

“Ice cubes,” Singer replied with a small, sincere smile. She drank from her own goblet. “Putting it in the water cools it down. The basement’s ice box is cold enough to make some, so I suggested the method to the innkeeper. Ice water is now a favorite at lunchtime.”

“Huh.” Sebastian swirled the goblet, watching the cubes clink against each other. “Marvelous. I cannae believe nobody’s ever tried something of the like before.”

She smiled more but remained silent. Sebastian set the goblet down. “I suppose I should be speaking on matters that pertain to this meeting, shouldn’t I?”

“Pleasantries aside, yes,” Singer said. He couldn’t discern whether she was serious or joking. Andraste save him, but she wore a mask like any practiced politician at court.

“Well.” Sebastian dipped his head toward her. “I come on behalf of Grand Cleric Elthina. She has heard of the splendor of your voice, and she wishes for it to bless the Chantry during a sermon. It will uplift the spirits of the Maker’s children. There are many who seek refuge from their suffering at the Chantry, for many carry weary hearts in Kirkwall. I am sure you are aware that not all are privileged enough to hear you sing under normal circumstances. Providing them with this service shall stay with them long after they have departed.”

Singer gazed out the open window while Sebastian spoke. Pearl earrings on her lobes caught the mid-afternoon light. When he indicated he had finished his opening offer by falling silent, she did not move. She could have been a muse for one of those lavish paintings that nobles threw money at to commission when they were bored. Except, Singer’s eyes slid back to Sebastian, and he felt very much like he was the painting being examined.

“Would I get paid?”

“Er, though the Chantry would hope you sing as an act of charity to the people of Kirkwall…” Sebastian replied slowly, hoping Singer would stop him before he went on. When she did not, he said, “You would be compensated fairly.” Trying not to sound abrupt, he added, “Should it come to that.”

“Mm.” Singer tilted her chin. “I don’t think it should come to that. I want to do what I can for Kirkwall in whatever way possible. I don’t need their own coin from tithes sitting in my bank.”

Sebastian exhaled a bit but smiled pleasantly at her. “That is good to hear. You have my thanks.”

“An admirable possession for me to own,” Singer said. Again, Sebastian couldn’t tell what her tone implied. “When do you want me to sing?”

“If it’s not too hasty, perhaps this upcoming sermon on the First Day? Will that be manageable?”

“I do not have my calendar on me, but I believe I shall be free then. I will arrive thirty minutes before the tenth bell to prepare. What hymn shall we be singing?”

“The grand cleric will be giving a sermon on the Canticle of Trials. She wishes for you to sing verses one through eight, and the rest of the congregation will join in for the final eight.”

“A prayer for the despairing. Very well.”

“Yes. I apologize if it’s a bit long.”

She smiled. “No, not at all. I look forward to singing with the people.”

“And I am pleased to hear it.” Sebastian paused, considering the words on his tongue, then spoke. “Especially since you are not particularly religious yourself.”

Her eyebrow piqued, and for some reason, Sebastian blushed. He could not decide if it was from embarrassment or…something else.

“Did you receive word about my religious standings from Sister Petrice?”

He couldn’t stop a scoff. “Ah, no, Sister Petrice is, well…I don’t put particular _stock_ in her preaching.”

Singer seemed to like the answer. Still smiling, blue eyes flint, she said, “Be careful not to ignore her too much. She is dangerous. Her fanaticism will be the catalyst of bringing Kirkwall to its knees.”

The sudden change in topic made Sebastian mentally stumble. Singer spoke so casually, so factually, that for a moment, he almost asked her if she had divined the future.

Regarding Singer oddly, Sebastian replied, “I…will.”

“Good.” Singer gestured to the small platter of cheese, fruit, bread, and meat between them. “Now, I don’t think you should leave this inn without sampling some of its food. It’s quite good, I’ll admit, and the fruit is rarely bruised or sour. Though I’m refusing to take any payment for the sermon, I do want to know more about you. Please, indulge me.”

Sebastian chuckled. Heat returned to his face. “Of course, my lady. I shall try my best.”

-

Hawke had never been a religious man, but he _did_ make it all the way up to the Chantry and loitered there with Carver while his mother and Aveline attended the sermon. The only reason why he could be seen this close to a holy place on a sermon day was due to a certain elf’s hymnal singing. Her voice rang through the Chantry and poured out the windows and door. She recited rather depressing verses Hawke didn’t particularly catch the words of, but Maker, if she was a holy woman, then he’d be inclined to attend services more often.

With spirits empowered by Singer’s voice, the congregation joined in with reverent fervor. Hawke leaned his head back against the cool stone of the Chantry, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He could pick out Singer in the masses, leading them, passionate and sure.

When the hymn ended, Carver muttered, “That wasn’t half bad. Better than anything I’ve ever heard coming from a place like this.”

“It’s because she’s there,” Hawke said. “Her voice does things to people.”

Carver grunted in agreement.

-

Aveline, upon seeing Singer enter her office, abruptly stood. Her knee clipped the desk, but she caught her wince before it could truly crack her face. “Singer. Hello. I did not expect you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Singer said with that ever-indiscernible smile. “I thought about sending you a message beforehand, but I couldn’t wait to congratulate you.”

“O-oh. Well. Thank you.” Aveline lightly bowed to her.

Singer’s smile turned into a grin. She entreated farther into the office, taking a look around. A small basket hung under her crooked arm. “I’ve heard that many are happy about your appointed captainship. You’ve always tried your best to protect Kirkwall with the guard. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“While your words flatter me,” Aveline said with a touch of dryness, “it’s action that will prove I’m worthy of this position.”

“Action you will surely see happen,” said Singer.

“I hope so.”

She set the basket on Aveline’s desk. “I bring food and alcohol, obviously, because the inn has an abundance of it, and the chef hasn’t been able to say no to me yet.”

“I wonder why,” Aveline smirked. Singer glanced up at her and chuckled. She took out a heavenly-smelling loaf of linen-wrapped bread and a bottle of wine to put on the desk.

“Yes. It will always be a mystery.” Singer held up a small wheel of wax-covered cheese. “It’s Orlesian. Very delicious. It’ll pair well with the wine and bread. I won’t be able to enjoy it with you; nobles clamber for my attention, and I must oblige if I want to have increased patronage.”

“Good luck with that,” Aveline snorted. “It makes me appreciate being here with all this wine and cheese to eat by myself.”

“Oh, well, you don’t _have_ to eat it by yourself. I’m sure you have people in your guard you wouldn’t mind spending time with.”

Aveline recognized the subtle drawl in Singer’s tone. She coughed, and for some reason, she had no idea what to do with her hands. “There’s…no. Nobody.”

“Mm.” Singer’s eyes twinkled, but she looked back down and shrugged. “In any case, I also figured you might need something to make this office feel like it belongs to you.”

“Do you have some dried flowers in that basket? Incense, maybe? I’d simply like to get the stench of my former captain out of here. It reeks of corruption and ass.”

Singer lightly laughed. “It does, doesn’t it? I didn’t bring anything, but I can have something to remedy the stench delivered tomorrow.”

“Will it be too…?”

“Feminine?” Singer finished. “No. It’ll be pleasant, that’s all. Have faith in me, Aveline.”

“I do, I do,” she conceded with a plaintive gesture. “You have my thanks, Singer.”

The elf’s smile remained, though her gaze shifted. “May I give you advice, Captain Vallen?”

The title rolled off Singer’s tongue like she had used it far longer than Aveline held the position. “You may,” Aveline said, though an inkling of suspicion tickled the back of her mind.

“I am extremely privileged to have the life I do. Many people, particularly elves, do not. They make up most of the lower class in Kirkwall despite being a minority group, which means they are disproportionately exploited.”

“I know the statistics,” Aveline spoke. She tried to keep her tone neutral.

Singer went on. “Then you should know to ensure that your guard takes their issues seriously. You have had troubles with the guard protecting elven citizens in the past, and sentiments are particularly sour after what happened with the magistrate’s son.”

Aveline should not have been surprised of Singer’s knowledge. Whether it came from Hawke or her own network, she could not be sure, but nevertheless, it was information Singer possessed. “He was dealt with properly,” Aveline said brusquely.

“By Hawke, a mercenary. Not the guard.” Singer leveled Aveline with a plain look. “You have the power to bring about a change in the way elven complaints, charges, and everything in between are dealt with. Don’t let them be a blind spot in your enforcement. It will turn them against you—it will turn them to others vying for power in Kirkwall.”

A silence passed in the office. Then, lowly, Aveline said, “The Qunari, you mean.”

Singer gave the barest of nods. “They may not pose a threat right now, but they have no intention of leaving. During their time here, they will convert.”

“And elves who have been overlooked by the law will search for a place that can give them order and justice,” said Aveline. Already, the implications began to sprawl in her brain. She quickly glanced at the door to make sure it was shut. “I cannot stop them, however. It is entirely within their right to convert to the Qun.”

“It is,” Singer agreed. “Just…make sure it is truly their choice and not them being pushed out by a city who neglects their justice. It will cause tension.”

The way the word “tension” crossed Singer’s lips indicated much more, but Aveline was smart enough not to press. She often did this; she came in on a simple matter, but her conversations carried a weight to them that did not easily leave the mind.

It was almost as if Singer gave warning of the future.

Aveline nodded once, slow but concise. “I’ll do my best.”

Then Singer smiled again, seemingly content with Aveline’s words. She reached into the basket and said, “There’s one more thing I wanted to give you before I left. A true gift to congratulate you on your position.”

She removed a small frame with an embroidered cloth in the center. Aveline gaped at it when she saw what had been sewn in. Throat suddenly dry, she gingerly took the embroidered du Lac sigil and stared down at it in disbelief. “Where…how did you…” Sentences could not form in her bewildered state. “What…?”

“I listen,” Singer said with ease. “When we first met, you mentioned that your father had been exiled after his patron was assassinated. I asked what his name was. You said Benoit du Lac.”

Aveline did not remember the exchange, but Singer was an expert at picking out information through her casual, silken words.

“Before my former employer departed to Val Royeaux on business, I asked her to look into the archives of chevaliers bearing the name du Lac. Of course, simply inquiring such matters has a political aspect to it that Lady Beaumont and I are well aware of, and the search could have yielded unwanted attention on our end. I did not fully expect her to follow through with the request, knowing the Great Game can be a silly, fickle thing. But, when she returned to Kirkwall, she delivered a simple drawing of it.”

“…I could have drawn it for you,” Aveline murmured, but she was too distracted to get her wryness across.

“You could have. But then it wouldn’t have been a surprise. You became captain, I tested my long-unused embroidery skills, and here we are.”

Gingerly, Aveline set the frame on the corner of her neat and unpersonal desk. It looked like it had always meant to be there. She smiled. Emotion bubbled in her chest.

“Thank you, Singer. Truly.”

Singer dipped her head. “Of course, Captain.”

-

“You, elf, where is the innkeeper of this establishment?”

The elven woman paused her writing at the bar counter. A normal servant, elf or human, would have jumped up and immediately responded to such a tone—especially when it came from armored templars. But her lack of reaction made Cullen wary. Something tickled in the back of his exhausted mind.

The other inn patrons who came to the main floor for breakfast paused their tired, low conversations to watch the exchange. Already tense because of the templar presence, a new layer added when Geran, the other templar, singled out the elf. However, he did not make the observations Cullen did and stepped closer to the woman.

“I’m speaking to you. Where’s your master?”

She set the quill back in the inkwell and stepped off the barstool to face them. Though she wore a demure expression, she held no smile. Her clothes were finely made, and she carried herself with a refined, unashamed confidence. Periwinkle eyes pierced their armor like steel arrows.

Oh, sweet Andraste, this was not a servant.

“Excuse me, but I think you have the wrong impression,” she said smoothly. Cullen’s face heated behind his helmet. “I am no servant. I am a resident of this inn. But, to answer your question, Ser Lucio is away on business for the day. He shall not return until tomorrow evening. His assistant is overseeing a shipment at the docks, and she will not be back until midday. Whatever Circle business you’re on will have to wait.”

She smiled. “In the meantime, I can—”

“Uncovering apostates is a business that cannot wait, elf,” Geran spat. “We’ve received information that one of the servants is a hidden apostate. Should this matter go unattended by _waiting,_ then your fine inn may have a maleficar to deal with. Would you be so calm then?”

“Possibly. This is a calm environment for both patrons and servants alike; I have heard stress may… _exacerbate_ the possibility of possession.”

Geran’s growl reverberated under his helmet. He stepped closer to the elf in an attempt to intimidate her. Cullen gripped his arm, however. Geran was new, and he needed to be tested on how to deal with people when it came to rooting out apostates. With such a simple conversation spiraling so fast, Cullen intervened to set a proper example.

“Apologies, madam,” he said. Cullen removed his helmet to show the elf his face and make the interaction more personal. He smiled. “We simply request that someone who oversees the servants may bring them to a more private spot for evaluation.”

She nodded once. “Of course. I will alert the head servant of your arrival, ser…”

“Rutherford. Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.”

“Ah. A pleasure, Knight-Captain.”

“And your name, madam?”

“Singer.”

He’d been right. Singer was one of the most popular names in Kirkwall, and she performed regularly at The Foal’s Meadow for months, now. He simply did not consider that she’d be mingling on the ground floor.

Beside Cullen, Geran made a choked noise. Singer heard it. Her eyes slid over to him like a dagger slicing across skin. “Rossina will be out to fetch you in a moment. Excuse me.”

She did not bow. Singer swept up her papers and exited through the kitchen door.

Cullen let out a small breath. He glanced over his shoulder to see the patrons on both floors quickly avert their gazes and resume normal conversation.

“I…that was Singer. _The_ Singer,” Geran bemoaned. “Maker.”

“Next time, perhaps you should treat every individual you speak to as though they were Singer,” Cullen put. He slid his helmet back on.

Within another minute, Singer returned to them, smiling. “This way, gentlemen. Rossina has our staff gathered.”

The servants, while anxious and fidgety, proved to show no signs of magic or possession. When Cullen asked if any other staff members were missing today, Rossina replied that those standing in front of him made up the inn’s servants. She didn’t appear to be lying. None of the servants lied, either, after they were asked the same question. Cullen had long been able to tell when an individual hid the truth about a hidden apostate, whatever form it may have come in.

They thanked Rossina and the staff for their time, apologized for the trouble, and sternly reminded them that if a mage did show themselves, they needed to be reported to the Templar Order right away.

Singer had resumed her spot at the counter. Cullen and Geran offered bows to her. “Again, apologies for the inconvenience, my lady,” Cullen said to her. “Have a blessed day.”

“You as well.”

Once they exited The Foal’s Meadow, Cullen let out a small breath, relieved to be rid of Singer’s scathing gaze.

-

It was well past midnight when a thumping came from one of the clinic’s doors. Anders jolted upright, having drifted asleep in his chair while sorting tonics, and mechanically called, “We’re open.”

The clinic was typically slow during these hours unless Hawke came tumbling in with one of their associates (or himself) in tow, snapping the world into commotion. Occasionally, a parent or grandparent would come with a sick child or spouse. Of course, there were the few odd patients that came Anders’ way, but he stitched and healed them up no matter their state.

The person who came in was not a patient seeking healing, however.

Singer shut the door behind her with a foot. She could not use her hands because she carried a bundled child in her arms. The child’s bare legs poked out from the blanket that’d been wrapped around them.

“Singer? What—what’s this all about?” Anders asked. He rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes.

She did not come without disguising herself. A scarf covered her head, and she wore plain peasant clothes. Bandages covered her hands.

“I need your assistance,” Singer said. She laid the child on one of cots and brushed the blanket off her head. Anders saw that the child, an elf and no more than five or six, slept soundly.

A child this young with no outward ailment meant only one condition.

“She’s a mage, isn’t she?” Anders lowly inquired. He stepped beside Singer.

“Yes. Templars came to the inn today with the suspicion that one of the servants was a mage. They had it slightly off; it was the servant’s daughter that manifested magic not two weeks ago. She tried to keep it hidden like they all do, but it was only a matter of time in Kirkwall.”

Anders hummed in agreement.

“Her mother brings her to work every day, and she typically plays in the servant’s quarters. She froze the floor around her. The servants had to place a rug over the affected area so the templars wouldn’t see. While they interrogated the staff, I hid her underneath my bed.” Singer let out a short, soft chuckle. “They wouldn’t dare investigate my room after the impression they made.”

“Oh, no,” Anders smirked. “What did those bumbling idiots do?”

“One immediately took me for a servant and spoke rather rudely to me. It wasn’t until they realized who I am that they began their show of respectfulness.”

Anders laughed. “Maker, what I would have given to secretly watch that exchange.”

“Mm. A templar you probably know was there. Cullen Rutherford. I think he was training a new recruit.”

With a groan, Anders said, “Cullen Rutherford is a blond brick with a head filled with nothing but Chantry rhetoric, lyrium, and blind obedience to the knight-commander. Probably has some weird, sexual fantasy of Meredith Stannard rattling around in there, too.”

Singer grinned. “I imagine they all do.” She then waved a hand. “But besides analyzing fantasies from repressed templars, I’m certain they will be on the lookout for a mage either working or visiting the Meadow. I don’t want Lucio or his business to come under scrutiny, nor do I want this child to be thrust into the Circle. Her mother is packing their belongings as we speak. She wants to get out of Kirkwall. I hoped you could help them both.”

Anders regarded Singer for a few moments. She returned it with an unflinching stare. “I can,” he said. “It will be easier to avoid trouble since they’re not escaping the Circle, so the templars won’t be on the lookout. But travel always comes with risk.”

“What about getting them to Rivain?” Singer said. Anders grimaced.

“Rivain is always a dream for apostates, but many do not have the funds to travel there. I do not trust many ship captains, either. There is money in slave trade, and with this little girl and her mother traveling alone, they may be preyed on and shipped to Tevinter. But what’s worse? Tevinter as an elf or the Circle as a mage?”

“They both are.”

She pushed her lips to the side. “I would ask that you find a safe place for them to hide for at least a week. Don’t worry about trying to move them. I’ll work out the details.”

“I can do that,” he said. After a moment, he also added, “But it means you would become directly involved. It can be traced back to you.”

“Anders,” Singer said quietly. A rueful smile glossed over her lips. “You speak as though I’m not already aware. As though I do not have experience in such matters.”

He put his hands up placatingly. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I should not assume, you’re a bloody enigma, I’m a fool, all those sorts of apologies. Just…” Anders gestured to the sleeping child. “Protect her and her mother however you can.”

“I will.”

“And…does this mean you may be called upon to help others should the need arise?”

“Always,” Singer replied without pause, without her typical lull of consideration. Fire shone in her blue eyes, and she spoke the single word with passion.

Anders held out his hand. Singer grasped it. “Then welcome to the Mage Underground. I’m certain we’ll find your expertise in the field beneficial to our cause.”

Singer smiled and said nothing.

Now that he had her hand in his, Anders pulled it forward for closer inspection. Singer sighed but let him unwrap the bandages. Some areas were stained with fluid oozing underneath.

“Andraste’s ass, Singer…” He inspected the moderate burns on Singer’s hand, and he imagined the other looked similar. Blisters puffed up on her skin, and when Anders pushed back her sleeve, he found that the burns traveled halfway up her arm. “These must be agonizing.”

“I can ignore the pain,” Singer replied.

“Yes, well, they’ll scar if I don’t treat them right away,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be very bad for your image. And we can’t have that, can we?”

Anders led her to an empty cot. Singer allowed him to unwrap the other bandages secured around her fingers, palm, and arm. Once he did, he began the healing process. Justice stirred within him, awakened by the use of spirit magic.

“How did it happen?” he lowly inquired while he worked, though he was partially sure of the answer.

“Avra, the girl, was so scared of templars coming to get her that when she saw me begin to crouch down and retrieve her from under the bed, she accidentally expelled some flames. It didn’t do much damage to the floor and the bed frame, thankfully.”

“Thankfully,” Anders repeated dryly. “Well. I’m glad to hear that your furnishings were saved from this fate.” He propped her arm up. “Maker, that means you must’ve been dealing with these burns all day. You really aren’t mortal, are you?”

 _She is not,_ Justice’s voice drifted in the back of his mind. Anders’ good-natured smile slipped.

“Mortal enough to have to put on a brave face,” Singer said. “I regularly soaked them in cool water.”

He sniffed at her arm. “I smell honey, too. Or am I just hungry? Or are you that exceptional that even your injuries smell pleasant?”

Singer chuckled. “I wish that were true. I simply put honey on before bandaging them. You should probably eat, though. You’re too thin.”

“Yes, Mother, I know,” he muttered.

“I’ll arrange for more supplies to be sent here through Lirene. I donate to her fund regularly; I’ll tell her to direct some of it to you and your clinic. How are you on lyrium supply?”

“Low,” Anders said, “but it would be nonexistent if I didn’t run around with Hawke. With all the smugglers, raiders, bandits, and slavers we clash with, there’s bound to be some lyrium to scavenge.”

“Good. If you need more of it to keep your mana up for your patients, tell me. I’ll arrange something.”

“You _are_ well-connected, aren’t you?”

“I’m pretty, and I sing beautifully,” Singer said, tone full of mirth. Her burns began to vanish with the pale glow of healing magic dispersing throughout her hand and arm. She watched with casual interest. Anybody who wasn’t well-accustomed to this type of healing would have been awed. “Men will go to great lengths to impress me.”

Anders doubted that was the sole truth, but he didn’t bother pressing her for more details. Singer helped him, refugees, and now mages; he wouldn’t question her methods.

He could, however, question other things—but not at the moment. Singer’s marred skin turned soft once more, and she thanked him with such sincerity that he nearly cried.

-

“I can’t believe you’re getting me mixed up in this business,” Varric sighed. He rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Smuggling here and there is one thing, but smuggling _mages_ out of Kirkwall? That’s a whole other pile of shit—and it’s sad shit, too, Singer. You realize that, don’t you?” He then waved her off. “Never mind that question. Of course you do. I just don’t want to see you end up like Blondie, all holed away in Darktown, bitter and broke and wanted.”

“You speak like you aren’t already ‘mixed up in this business,’ Varric,” Singer replied, and he grimaced. “Do you want me to list all the ways you have a hand in this kind of endeavor? Or maybe you don’t want to acknowledge it because it means you remain a neutral party, never taking sides, never directly involved, hands clean.”

“Hey, my hands aren’t clean. I know that.”

He didn’t like being in the hot seat with Singer. It had only happened on occasion, but never at this level. She leaned forward in her chair, fixing him with those twilight blues so ruthlessly he couldn’t escape. Her mouth was set in a hard line, and she had a single finger pointing into the wood of his desk.

“Passivity, Varric, kills mages as much as the templar blade and the Tranquil brand itself. There are children— _children_ who live and die in those Circles. You ensured that mages have escaped this fate before. You actively do it now with the company you keep. Why is what I’m asking so different? You won’t even be financing anything. I just need to borrow your network—”

“—There’s no such thing as borrowing a network—”

“And find the most trustworthy ships to smuggle mages out of Kirkwall and to Rivain.”

Varric gave her a flat look. “The words ‘trustworthy’ and ‘smuggle’ can’t coexist, Singer.”

“And you’re not as good of a liar as you think you are.”

“That’s very hurtful!” he exclaimed.

“You already have people in mind. I can tell you do.”

“If I did—which I _don’t—_ I know they would ask quite a lot of money for the service.”

“You act like you haven’t seen my bank statements.”

“That’s _beside_ the point, Singer. To do this, it’ll, it will bleed you dry. I’m telling this to you as both a friend and your financial advisor.”

“No. You’re telling this to me because you don’t want to see me caught and hanged.”

“Well—yeah, that too!”

Frustration surfaced on Singer’s mask. Real, unhidden frustration. Shit. It made her scary.

“I do not do things impulsively. I am aware of what is at stake—for both myself and for those I’m choosing to assist. There is danger. There is loss. But this influence and money I’ve accumulated? This is what it has always been for. This is what it will _always_ be for. You understood that from the start, even if you never said anything. Now, I’m coming forward and _telling_ you, Varric Tethras, that you will help me help those in danger.”

Singer relaxed, but her expression did not change. “If you truly cannot, though, I’ll do it myself.”

They stared at each other in silence—until that silence was broken by the door slamming open and Hawke proclaiming, “Your dearest friend is here, Tethras! And guess what? I got the rest of the money for your bastard brother Bartrand!”

Hawke then saw the two seated at his desk. His grin faltered. “Uh oh. I sense the tension in the air—did I interrupt something bad? Tell me, and I’ll wait outside.”

Behind him, Carver snorted. “A little too late for that, isn’t it?”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Singer said with a smile. She stood and spread her arms for Hawke. He strode forward to give her a hug. She kissed him on the cheek. “Our conversation was ending. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Varric sighed. “I’ll have a ship name and captain for you.”

“By the end of the week?”

“By the end of week. Maybe sooner.”

She grinned at him. “Thank you, Varric. Truly. I’m indebted to you.”

“And I won’t let you forget it, Singer.” But he begrudgingly smiled, too. Maker take him, but he couldn’t help himself.

“What’s this secret business all about?” Hawke asked. He raised an eyebrow. “Are Carver and I worthy of being privy to these veiled exchanges?”

“You sound so bloody smart,” said Carver. “Too bad it’s just you using big words.”

“No, you’re fine,” Singer replied. She patted Hawke’s arm. “And you are _very_ smart.”

Hawke sniffed. “See, Carver? Mother and Singer say I’m smart, so it must be true.”

“Varric is offering his services to help me smuggle mages out of Kirkwall,” said Singer.

 _That_ gave the brothers pause. Carver then groaned.

“Not you, too.”

“Unfortunately, Carver, it seems I do have a heart,” Singer said without bite, but it made his face redden all the same. “I’m starting small with apostates hiding in the city. Then, once I’ve found enough footing, I’ll take on the Circle.”

Hawke leveled her with a suspicious look. “You talk so confidently, Singer. It makes me almost believe that what you say will go smoothly.”

“Did I ever say anything about it going smoothly? I said it will be done. That’s all.” She took a step back from him. “I hear you may be in need of my services soon, too—and not the services we already provide each other.”

While Carver sputtered, Hawke smirked and ran his fingers through Singer’s soft hair. “You have too little faith in me! I’m perfectly capable of dodging templars.”

“How long have you known?” the younger brother asked solemnly.

“Oh, since before I started working at the Meadow. You’re not as well-kept of a secret as you think you are, Hawke. The only reason why templars haven’t stormed up to your door is because of him—” She pointed to Varric. “Because of your mother’s name, because of Aveline, and because those you’ve worked for won’t rat you out. It helps that you haven’t outrightly used your magic in a public setting, too, which is good.”

“See? Perfectly capable.”

Usually, Singer would have brushed off the nonchalant remark. But because she and Varric already had a row, she set her mouth into a firm, cold line once more and grabbed her hat off the corner of the chair. “Have a good day, gentlemen. And Varric—by the end of the week. No later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She placed her hat on her head and strode out of the room, shoes clacking soundly on the floorboards. The door didn’t slam behind her, but she managed to make it feel frigid.

Varric shuddered. “Remind me never to make Singer angry. I may not live through it.”

“What, that _wasn’t_ angry?” Carver asked in an octave higher than his normal voice.

“I don’t think so. But if you two had run your mouths any longer, it might’ve turned into that.”

Hawke rubbed the back of his head, frowning. “Why do I feel like I just did something bad?”

“She was trying to tell you she cares about you, Hawke,” Varric explained. “And you completely missed it.”

“Ah.”

He stood there for a moment before bursting into action and throwing the door open again. “Singer—wait! Hold a moment! Please!”


	8. Status and Connections

“Sing? It’s me—I brought that fried fish from Lowton you like with extra chips, so I hope you haven’t had lunch yet.”

Hawke shook the brown parchment bag as he entered the room. Singer sat at her vanity, dressed in nothing but a silk shift. She smiled at him in the vanity mirror’s reflection. She clutched a powder puff in her hand, but he could see through the application on her face.

He dropped the food on the table and hurriedly crossed over to Singer, bending down on one knee and cupping her face. “What happened,” he lowly spoke. A thumb grazed over the bruised splotch of skin underneath her eye. The discoloring spread all the way up to her browbone. Hawke also saw the swelled, tender split on her lower lip.

“I attended that private charity banquet Lady Elegant hosted last night. Comte and Comtesse Auclair from Jader were in attendance, too, since Lady Elegant is now related to them through marriage. They’re popular in the Kirkwall nobility circles because of their regular visitation and excellent taste.”

“And I’m assuming that our dear comte and comtesse has something to do with this,” Hawke said. A slow rage built inside him, and it grew the longer her memorized the bruising around Singer’s eye and the dark red sliver of the split.

“They did, in fact, have something to do with my appearance,” Singer replied. “Comte Auclair was apparently enamored by my performance, and his wife agreed. They wined and dined with me for most of the night, making comments on my beauty and voice. I let them, but they didn’t hide their intentions that well. They _really_ thought I was beautiful.”

Hawke shook his head and made a disgusted noise. “Don’t tell me…”

“Having an elf fetish is quite common in Orlesian high society,” Singer said blithely. She took the powder puff and patted it on Hawke’s nose. “But most elves they pick out for their bed have to oblige because they’re servants. I, however, am not. When I declined—politely, of course—Comte Auclair became very unhappy. He struck me twice in the middle of the main parlor.”

She smiled sharply like she enjoyed remembering the scene. “They underestimated my own standing here. I am _Singer._ I am not hit without consequence.”

Chuckling, Hawke said, “Please, go on, if only so I can perfectly imagine the looks on their stupid faces when they realized their mistake.”

“Lady Elegant is, well, _elegant_ even in her fury. I just got hit in her own home. I wouldn’t have blamed her for downplaying the incident; I’m still an elf, and siding with an elf over nobility can have ostracizing ramifications. But she told Comte and Comtesse Auclair to kindly leave her establishment at once.”

“Now, I’m no noble, but I know that when the word ‘kindly’ is thrown about, it means anything but.”

“Exactly. Then, as soon as they left, all the nobles were clamoring over me to make sure I was alright, saying that they never really liked the Auclairs, that the comte had a horrible temper and the comtesse was dull. I imagine they’ll find a quick ship to Jader sooner than planned.”

“And just like _that,_ they’ve fallen from the good graces of Kirkwall,” Hawke said. His rage had calmed to a simmer. “Singer, you’re bloody powerful.”

“I’m getting there,” she grinned. “So when you make it back into noble rank, you’ll have someone on your side.”

Already on one knee, Hawke extravagantly bowed. “I shall be forever indebted to you. But…” He straightened and took Singer’s hand. “If I ever see anything like this happen to you again, noble or not, forget bloody decorum. They’ll be a smear on the cobblestone. Then people will say, ‘Is that a shit stain or Nobleman Fancypants? Can’t tell the difference!’”

Singer laughed, and the sight of it made Hawke beam. “You’re going to make a terrible noble, Garrett.”

“Oh, I have no doubt I will,” he said. He leaned in and kissed Singer on the corner of her mouth. “But you’ll still like me, won’t you?”

“Most likely, especially if you keep bringing me greasy lunch.”

They moved to the table, and Hawke chilled their goblets, unafraid of his use of magic in Singer’s presence.

-

They didn’t intend on missing Singer’s performance. Shit just…happened, and runaway mages always muddled things up.

Varric and Hawke, both slightly out-of-breath, came through the main doors of the Meadow. A large crowd blocked their path. Singer, as always, mingled with her audience afterward. Her gracious smile shone like a beacon. She currently spoke to a familiar face, who then took her hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles. When he lifted his head, he grinned at her.

Singer hardly ever let anybody touch her hand, let alone kiss them.

Hm.

It took a couple seconds for Hawke to put a name to the man, but when he did, he blurted out to Varric, “It’s that Chantry boy we killed bandits for.”

“Easy, Hawke, no need to get competitive,” Varric smirked. “And yeah, it is. Think he’s going for your Singer?”

Hawke made a nonchalant face. “She’s not mine to begin with. Doesn’t matter. Don’t care.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Scowling at the tone in Varric’s voice, Hawke waved the dwarf off. “Stay on task, Varric. Maker.”

“Hey, I’ve been on task from the start!”

They made their way to Singer. Neither looked his complete best with having just killed a slew of corpses and blood mages only a few hours ago. “Do I stink?” Hawke still asked Varric under his breath.

“I wouldn’t call it stink, Hawke. More like _fragrant.”_

“Oh, just bloody swell.”

Singer spotted them approach. From the slight crinkling in the corners of her eyes, she knew something was amiss. Sebastian Vael, if Hawke remembered his name correctly, followed her gaze. He was far more unconcerned than Singer, and he bowed to them.

“Ah, Garrett Hawke, Varric Tethras. It’s a pleasure seeing you again.” He dipped his head to Singer. “I imagine you’ll wish to speak to them. Have a good evening, my lady.”

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Singer smiled. “And thank you for coming to my performance. Good night.”

He departed into the crowd. With so many other people still clamoring for her attention, Singer couldn’t afford to give them that much time. “Gentlemen, hello. You’ve come a little late.”

“Yes, well, sorry about that,” Hawke said a little abruptly. “Something came up, unfortunately.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” she said, but he recognized her teasing. “From the state of your appearance, I’m guessing you’re here to discuss something else. Can you wait in my chamber? I can’t leave quite yet.”

“We can do that, Singer,” Varric said with an easy smile. Hawke followed the dwarf, and once they retreated, another three people took their place. He felt…unsatisfied with the conversation, but he couldn’t explain why.

They waited in the room for nearly an hour, making low conversation and eating the dinner a servant brought up to tide them over. Hawke hadn’t realized he was starving until he bit into the juicy roast. Then, before he knew it, his plate was clean.

He was tired, too. He was so tired.

Singer came up to the room quietly. Though she composed herself well in front of them, fatigue wore around her eyes. Even if her powder could cover up the remnants of the bruise, it couldn’t hide her weariness.

“What do you need of me?” she asked while she moved behind the dressing screen.

“Apostates on the coast,” Hawke replied. There was no point in dancing around the subject. “They need transportation to Rivain as soon as possible.”

“They have templars hunting them down,” Varric expanded. “They may make it out, but…”

“They may not,” Singer said. The dress she wore was slung over the panel. After the shifting of fabric, she reappeared with her familiar lilac-colored silk robe on. She moved to the vanity and sat down. There, she took out her earrings, undid the necklace around her neck, and began to wash her face with a cloth placed next to a white porcelain water basin.

Though Hawke had seen Singer naked on several occasions, watching her strip away the performance version of herself made himself fidget. It was a ritual they both interrupted. He shot a quick glance at Varric and found that he kept his eyes fixed on the goblet in his hand.

“We would have waited had the situation not been so dire,” Hawke said. “Anders, Merrill, and Aveline are currently with them on the coast, waiting to hear what our next move is. We would have…we would have left them to their own devices, but Anders was, er, _insistent_ that we seek your help.”

Singer ran a brush through her slate gray hair a few times. “Let me compose a message. It might be possible to reach one of the captains I’m in business with—the other two are already on the seas, either coming back to Kirkwall or heading to Rivain. She is supposed to leave at first light, which by the time we get everything sorted out gives us only a few hours.”

Hawke exhaled. So there was hope. He didn’t like hoping for apostates, but he often did things contradictory to logic. Singer’s presence did nothing to help, either.

She stood up and moved to her writing desk. After she asked them the exact location of the place they hid the mages, Singer wrote down something on her parchment, folded it, and sealed it with her own stamp. She gave it to Hawke. “Deliver this to Captain Carvalho of _The Morning Gull. La Gaviota Gris._ She’ll be pissed that I’m calling on her assistance too hastily, but she’ll take compensation.”

Singer walked into her room, and Hawke heard the opening of a vault. He examined the wax seal. The color of the wax was the light blue she typically used. But instead of the stamp of the harp Hawke was familiar with, he saw only a small sprig of dried baby’s breath pressed into the wax.

She came back out with two pouches of coin. She placed the heavier one down first. “Give this to Carvalho first. When she complains, give this as extra payment.” She set the smaller pouch beside it.

Varric took the coin. “We’ll get right on it.” Smirking, he said to Hawke, “Ready for a trip all the way down to the docks?”

“I need to sweat out this roast,” Hawke replied, standing. He tucked the sealed letter between his leather strappings and his tunic, careful not to break the wax seal.

Singer nodded to them both. “Then best get on it,” she said solemnly.

With the conversation soundly over, Hawke and Varric headed out the room. Before Hawke closed the door behind him, however, he looked back at Singer and found she was already doing the same thing. She smiled at him, sure and firm.

He flashed a grin at her, suddenly renewed.

-

“Someone’s coming,” Merrill whispered. She crouched low against the rock she scouted from. As the only one capable of seeing in the dark, she took up the role to spot any templars before they could be spotted themselves.

Anders cursed. “Just one person?” he asked in the dark. The sound of the crashing coast almost drowned out his voice.

“If we’re found out, the templars will catch our scent,” Grace said. “So. We have to make sure we’re not found out.” Though she did not state her solution outright, he implied it plenty in her voice.

“Now, hold a moment,” Aveline hissed. “If it’s someone just passing by, then we’d be responsible for the murder of an innocent.”

“Hate to tell you this, Guard Captain,” said Anders, “but anybody mucking about on the Wounded Coast at this hour is up to no good.” He couldn’t see her glare, but he felt it hit him.

“They’re coming our way,” Merrill reported. “And they’re moving swiftly. Oh—quite swiftly.”

“Prepare yourselves,” Aveline commanded. “Merrill, Anders, be ready to give us some light.” Anders heard her stand and unsheathe her sword.

The air tightened with coiling magic. Anders clutched his staff, breathing in and out. He’d do this for any mage without hesitation. Whoever was coming, they would have to face his fury—

“Hold a moment!”

Merrill’s suddenly light voice broke the tension. She leaned back on her knees to make herself visible. “Creators, it’s Singer.”

 _“What?”_ Anders and Aveline both gritted out. 

The sound of footsteps deftly crossing over sand and stone became clear. Merrill slid down the rock and whisper-shouted, “Over here!”

“Don’t use any light.” The distinct rhythm of Singer’s voice caused Anders to let out a relieved breath. “I could see a few campfires about a league away. I’m not saying that it’s templars, but it’s probably templars.”

“It’s alright,” Anders said to Grace’s barely-visible form. “She’s the one who we sent help for in the first place.”

“Where’s Hawke and Varric?” Aveline questioned. A few moments later, Anders heard Singer crouch in front of them.

“Getting the message to the captain. I didn’t plan on coming, but usually I send mages off with food and coin to help them when they first dock. Since the two had already left, I couldn’t give them anything. So.” There were rustling noises. “I brought about two weeks’ worth of food for when you all dock, plus money that adds up to about five gold. Use it wisely. Rivainis don’t turn mages in, but they can spot you out in an instant. Some will try to swindle or rob you. I threw in a change of clothes, but I’m sorry if they don’t fit. You’re not going to want to wear your mage robes, though. They’ll make you even bigger targets.”

“Thank you, serah,” Grace said after a moment. “Truly. To have you go to such great lengths for us…”

“Think nothing of it,” said Singer. “All I ask is that if you get settled enough, you will help other mages who were once in your circumstance. They will need support.”

“I will. I swear it on the Maker, I will.”

“Good. Inside your rucksack is the name and address of an elven mother with a mage child. They landed in Rivain about three weeks ago. The girl will need help with her magic. She may have already found it in the seers there but see if you can assist her.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation, but how much longer will we have to wait?” Anders asked.

“If Hawke and Varric made it to the docks without any major problems and got the message to Carvalho, then about two more hours. We’ll see dawn, soon. When it comes and we spot the ship, the crew will be on the lookout for three blips of light. Once they see it, they’ll send a rowboat out to ferry the mages to the ship.”

“So we wait,” Aveline summarized grimly.

“We wait,” echoed Singer. “I suggest you all rest. Try to sleep if you can. I’ll take Merrill’s spot as lookout.”

“And what about you?” Merrill asked. “You just had a performance, didn’t you? Aren’t you tired?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m made of strong stuff.”

Justice told Anders this was true.

Too tired to argue, everybody sunk back against the damp cavern wall. Singer took up Merrill’s place, lying low against the rock, and fell silent. Anders drifted with his staff over his lap, letting the sound of the sea pull him into the Fade—

And awoke at the shift of the sand. Groggily opening his eyes, Anders saw Hawke’s form faintly outlined in the almost non-existent light of the dawn.

“Hush, now, sleepy boy,” Hawke whispered, patting Anders on the head. “No need to fret.”

“Hmph. I will fret at that smell,” Anders snapped back. He rubbed at his eyes. “Might lead the templars right to us.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Singer said quietly to Hawke, who pretended to silently weep with his face covered. “He has sand up his butt crack.”

Hearing Singer say “butt crack” in her pretty voice made Anders snort, tired as it was. With his vision cleared, he noticed that Singer had dressed herself in black leggings and a black long-sleeved tunic. Even her gray hair was covered by a black cap that also hid her ears.

“Where’d you get stealthy clothes like that?” he asked. In the dim light, Singer flashed him a smirk.

“I have an outfit for every occasion, Anders. You should know that.”

He snickered. And, if he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn he saw the outline of a throwing knife on her hip.

-

With Grace and her merry band of apostates on a ship bound for Rivain, their day, night, and a teensy bit of the day ended. Once they slunk back to Kirkwall, they parted ways—except for Singer and Hawke.

She invited him back to the inn for a bath and some sleep. Hawke was not a man who would refuse any of her offers.

“When do you leave for the Deep Roads?” Singer asked him. Hawke had her pulled tightly to his chest. Sleep beckoned him. He always had the nicest time sleeping in her bed—no nightmares, no demons. Just blissful black.

“Next month, hopefully. Bartrand still needs to make arrangements that our whopping investment somehow can’t cover, the bastard. But with Grey Warden entry points to the Deep Roads, it will surely happen sooner rather than later. Bartrand is an impatient dwarf. Don’t know how he could possibly be related to Varric.”

Hawke’s hand intertwined with Singer’s. She smelled of rose petals.

She hummed, and if Hawke had been more alert, he would have recognized it as the kind of hum she made whenever she plotted.


	9. Expedition Commenced

The early muggy morning greeted Garrett and Carver Hawke as they made their way to the pavilion in Hightown. Varric, Isabela, Merrill, and Anders met them outside of the Hanged Man. Aveline and Fenris joined up at the top of the stairs leading to the Hightown bazaar. They all felt good. They were all ready. The expedition had been unexpectedly bumped up at least three weeks earlier than planned, but they were like cockroaches. Or rats. Easily adaptive.

Hawke’s steps almost bounced. He was a slightly hungry—he and Carver snuck out before Mother awoke to join the caravan. Bear would miss them, but Hawke promised he’d be back soon, and he expected many slobbery, hot-breathed dog kisses upon his return.

Isabela and Anders joked about something sexual with Merrill asking follow-up questions. Fenris and Aveline discussed proper stretching techniques to work out knots from wielding a sword. Varric jabbed at Carver, but the little brother was too eager to leave to give any proper retort, much to Varric’s dismay.

Taking in a lungful of air and adjusting the pack strap slung over him, Hawke made sure his shoulders were straight before they rounded the corner to the pavilion. He put on a smirk. They were about to make a lot of money—and he could move Mother back into the Amell estate with Bear as her personal guard. Carver planned to find a place of his own, thank the Maker, and the thought of it made Carver’s personality brighten considerably.

Could he break out into dance right quick? He’d only be a moment.

“Let’s go have some fun, huh?” Varric grinned, sauntering with Bianca propped over his shoulder.

“Ugh, yes, please,” Isabela said with her head tossed back. “I _need_ some fun in my life.”

“Deep Roads,” Anders drawled. “Yes. In my experience, they’re the most fun place in Thedas.”

“Ooh, do you think we’ll find plenty of deep mushroom?” Merrill sweetly asked. “I wanted some for my herbal collection.”

“I have to admit,” Aveline said, “I cannot wait to put the blade to some darkspawn. It won’t bring Wesley back, but damn will it feel good.”

“With how much we’re getting paid to be hired muscle,” Carver chuckled, “it almost feels like robbery.”

“Awful cheery lot for heading straight into death,” said Fenris. “But what else is new?”

Sunlight broke through the respite of the street’s shadow as they entered the wide pavilion. Horses and brontos got hitched to carts or saddled, and dwarven supervisors managed the packing of food and supplies. Bartrand’s shouting rose above all the noise.

Hawke pushed past the commotion and led his friends straight to the source. With a beaming grin, he called, “Bartrand! So good to—”

Beside Bartrand stood Singer.

The grin on his face dropped like a stone in a well.

“—see you.”

“About time you nug-humpers showed up!” Bartrand snapped. “We got lots of loading to do, still! You, the burly kid and the redhead, get—”

Hawke ignored Bartrand’s demands and surged forward to Singer. She met him with her usual smile. “Hello, Hawke,” she said, like she was meeting him for a late breakfast instead of a bloody expedition group to the _Deep Roads._

He gripped both her shoulders. “What—what are you doing here?” The question came out in a rush and didn’t sound as commanding as Hawke hoped.

Bartrand butted in before Singer could reply. “This sweet little singing elf is the reason our expedition date got moved forward!” he crowed. “Said she’d cover any extra expenses as long as she’d get to join in.”

“Well,” Isabela said from behind Hawke, _“this_ is…unusual.”

“I apologize for surprising you all,” Singer said, gently removing Hawke’s hands from her shoulders. “But if I had told you prior to the expedition, you would have tried to stop me, which, honestly, would have been an extreme waste of time that only tested my patience.”

Unable to form coherent words, Hawke sharply gestured between Varric and Singer and made several angry, baffled noises.

Varric stepped forward with a placating gesture. “Come on now, kiddo, the Deep Roads isn’t a place—”

Faster than Hawke could follow, Varric’s words cut off with a strained choke due to a small, deadly blade at his throat. Singer brushed it against his skin. Though her entire demeanor stayed calm, her blue eyes had taken an icy, derisive quality to them. “What was that, Serah Tethras? I must have misheard. Surely, you did not call me _kiddo.”_

“…Alright, alright, point taken. Can you lower the blade, please? It might shave off some of my scruff, which I need for my rugged appearance.”

Singer stepped back. Glinting, the blade vanished up the sleeve of her neat white linen blouse. It was tucked into trousers meant for traveling. The calf-high boots that came over the bottom of her trousers did not look well-worn but had a few notable scuffs on them.

Bartrand let out a hearty laugh at the sight of his younger brother being taken off-guard, then turned to yell at a hired hand for stacking sacks of flower “the wrong way.” He trudged off, leaving Singer with Hawke and the rest.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said with a light scoff.

Hawke had never _scowled_ at Singer before, but he didn’t hold one back when he said, “Maker, that doesn’t change the fact of, oh, I don’t know, we’re going to the Deep Roads. Filled with darkspawn. Demons. Bad—things! A few throwing knives aren’t going to protect you, and _we_ aren’t going to be able to protect you.”

“Bold of you to assume I only have throwing knives and need protecting from you at all,” she replied, a brow raised.

Aveline, the more level-headed one, asked, “But why come on the expedition at all? You have a secure life, a career. You don’t need to be dodging darkspawn on some month-long journey.”

“It’s true. But it’s an investment with lots of profit I can’t pass up, and I don’t trust Bartrand to pay me if I’m not physically present.”

“Singer, you wound me,” said Varric. “You don’t trust my influence?”

“I don’t trust the blind spot when it comes to your brother.”

“Ouch,” Isabela said from the side of her mouth.

Varric didn’t miss a beat. “Fair enough, but like the guard captain said, you don’t need to be doing this, not really. When we returned, I was going to get started on arranging a tour of the sort, remember? Your name is spreading fast, Singer, and people want to pay to see you perform. Are you going to take the chance of tossing it all out for, what, money you’ll make anyway?”

“Yes.”

He chuckled at her response, but Hawke heard the clear frustration in it. “Fine. It’s your funeral, I suppose. But Bartrand won’t carry your body back up to the surface.”

“I assure you, my death won’t be so boring as getting run through by a rusty darkspawn blade in the Deep Roads.”

Hawke went to argue with Singer some more just because he could and still _did not understand,_ but Fenris dryly sighed and said, “Oh, if the little performer wants to cavort with all manner of foulness, that is her choice, is it not? She already cavorts with you, Hawke, so she should be well-prepared for the Deep Roads.”

“Just—what are you implying, Fenris?” he asked in a pitch higher than normal. Singer smirked.

“I’m not _implying_ anything. She’s not an innocent civilian. I know the look of someone who has killed—and killed well.”

 _“Killed well?_ What is this, some kind of cannibal manhunt?”

“No, no, he’s right,” Singer said blithely. “Cannibalistic undertones aside.”

“Who _are_ you?” Isabela asked, but it had much more lust than Hawke was comfortable with. Not that it made him uncomfortable. He didn’t care at all, actually!

“I’m whatever the moment calls for,” Singer replied.

“Alright!” Hawke clapped his hands. “I am going to load some crates like a _normal_ person while the rest of you lunatics catch up! Farewell! You shan’t see me again until some darkspawn has its finger up your bumholes! And even then—who knows? I may not be needed because you have _Killer_ over there!”

Isabela only laughed. Anders and Merrill poorly hid their snickers. Even Fenris had to put on his unnaturally vacant face to hide any humor. “Eee, Hawke, everybody’s lookin’ at you,” Singer tutted, her accent coming out. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’ll—I’ll be how I bloody well please! Now, excuse me!”

Hawke stalked away from them without looking back, though the tiniest, _tiniest_ part of him hoped Singer would chase after him, catch his hand, hold him close, and—

He scowled at himself this time. _Their relationship wasn’t like that!_

In all his years alive, he could hardly recount a more terrible morning than this one.

-

Singer kept to herself the first week of travel. As a resourceful and adept person, she needed no help in tasks such as saddling and unsaddling her mount, pitching and packing a tent, and starting a fire for dinner. She didn’t have dinner with the rest of the expedition hires; instead, Singer made herself meals with ingredients she bought herself. Not even Bartrand could complain about her distance from the company. She relied on herself and did not impose as an extra burden for the caravan.

Hawke had spoken little to Singer during the travel. She rode a mount, which separated her from the cart they slogged around in for most of the day. Even then, Singer either kept herself at the front or in the back of the caravan. On occasion, Hawke would spot her conversing with Bodahn and his boy. He wanted to draw her to them, ask more questions about her presence here, hear her rich laugh—but Singer froze Hawke and the rest out with harsh efficiency. Anybody else who didn’t have an idea about their prior relationship would believe she was a stranger to him.

“She looks a bit lonely, don’t you think?” Merrill said for the fifth time tonight. She said the same thing every night, of course, which Fenris finally had enough of hearing.

He snapped, “Then go and give her company if you’re that concerned. Stop moaning about it otherwise.”

Merrill almost scowled at him, but her gaze drifted back to the solitary tent skirting the edge of camp and the elf making dinner in front of it. The location of the tent put her at risk for being attacked first if they were set upon by bandits, but Hawke stifled his worry. Singer was capable enough to handle herself. Right?

She made some kind of flat bread in a cast-iron skillet. The bread itself was pale, and dark spots bubbled on the surface. When the bread was done, Singer placed it next to her on a linen cloth, which she then covered. Nobody in their right mind should have been making _bread_ on such a journey, but whatever recipe Singer used, she made it quickly each night they camped. Hawke _discreetly_ watched Singer deftly stretch out dough with her hands before slapping it down on the skillet. As she waited for it to cook, she ate dried meat, cheese, and some roasted potatoes wrapped up in the bread.

“I’ll tell you what,” Anders said, not-so-discreetly staring at Singer, “whatever she’s eating looks _much_ better than this slop.” He sloshed the half-eaten bowl of stew in his hand. “Go ask her for some of that bread, Hawke.”

“No,” he said flatly. “I will not.”

“Ugh, this lover’s quarrel was entertaining at first,” Isabela groaned, “but now it’s just…sad. All you’ve done is mope about the entire time while Singer has made it perfectly clear that she can get along without your help. Or anybody’s, for that matter.”

“Bread…” Anders sighed.

“Shut up about bread,” Carver snipped. “If you want some so bad, ask her yourself. Or, better yet, pick up a skill other than flinging magic bolts and learn how to make it.”

“Careful, Carver, else you’ll find yourself lost and all alone in the Deep Roads.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, a threat is, ‘Carver, I’ll leave you in the Deep Roads if you don’t shut your fat hole.’ Learn the difference.”

“I wouldn’t leave you in the Deep Roads,” Merrill said. “Though, I’m prone to getting lost, so maybe I’m not the best one to have by your side.”

“I’d prefer you over the rest of this lot any day.” Carver paused. “Wait. I didn’t—that’s not—”

Isabela made childish smooching noises, and the attention on Singer moved away again. Hawke pretended to lose interest in her, but he couldn’t fool Varric, and he couldn’t fool himself.

From the corner of his eye, Hawke watched her wash and pack away her cookware, load it onto the nearby cart where she kept her supplies, then return to the linen-covered pieces of flatbread. Singer securely folded the linen before also tucking them away in the cart. The leftovers would be her breakfast along with some dried fruits.

She briefly disappeared to wash up in the nearby river, whose dull roar of rushing water would lull many to sleep. Hawke almost got up to his feet to follow her; a lone elven woman, well-known or not, could attract the wrong sort of intentions. But before he awkwardly excused himself to join Singer, she returned to the light of the campfires. Her shirt was untucked, a towel thrown over her shoulder, hair damp. She swung a pouch of soap in one hand.

Maker, Hawke thought as Singer ducked into her tent, she was beautiful.

“You’re staring again,” Varric said. He barely moved his mouth and kept quiet. “Just go talk to her. It’s physically making me hurt to watch you act like a pining boy.”

“Not pining,” Hawke corrected, “and not a boy.”

“Yeah, sure, tell that to your big sad eyes whenever you watch her.”

Singer, as usual, retired early for the night, leaving him with nothing to sneak glances at. While she enjoyed the privacy of her tent, Hawke and his crew had to rough it in their bedrolls with the open sky above them. Knowing she was just a short walk away from him bothered Hawke to no end.

It would be a small matter, speaking to Singer. His stubbornness, however, had won him over the past week, and he’d simply remind himself of all the reasons why he was cross with her to keep him stuck in his bedroll.

Imagining how she smelled after washing with that nice soap of hers, though…

Hawke bit back an outright growl and sat up. He angrily snatched his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and stalked off to get clean.

Isabela, who watched him through pretend-closed eyes, chuckled and said, “About damn time.”

The wash, of course, sucked Hawke’s breath from his lungs, and he almost lost his soap to the river’s current more than once when it popped up from his grasp. Hold it too tight, _pop!_ Hold it too loose, _pop!_ He nearly chucked it into the water out of sheer fury.

He came out of the river sopping and cursing. Hawke cast magic to dry himself off rather than spend half the bloody night using an old towel Mother packed away for him in a rucksack she shoved in his hands when she couldn’t convince him or Carver to let the little brother stay behind. He angrily shoved himself back into his clothes with the strappings hung over a shoulder. Camp, by now, had grown quiet, but the glow of the firelights was still strong, allowing hired hands to continue speaking in their low murmurs.

Hawke stopped in front of Singer’s tent. He’d have to stoop if he went inside, but he took a big breath, unlaced the leather tent flap tie done up from the inside, and pushed the canvas back. “Singer, I know it’s late,” he stared brusquely, “but we—”

Cold metal pressed to Hawke’s chest. In the sliver of distant firelight creeping in from behind Hawke, Singer’s blue eyes glinted pale green.

 _“Garrett,”_ she softly snarled. The knife came away from him. “What are you _doing?”_

“Ah. Right. Um. This…this was ill-thought. I see that now.”

Singer only scoffed. She sat back down on her blankets and said nothing else.

Hawke cleared his throat. “May…I come in?”

“You’re already halfway there,” she said. He inwardly wilted at the cold tone in her voice. “Might as well complete your perilous journey.”

“Right.”

Fumbling, Hawke crawled down on all fours and found soft fur underneath his palms. He slung the strappings aside. “Close the tent,” she instructed, “since you were so eager to undo the ties in the first place.”

“Quite the demand, but I shall oblige,” Hawke said, trying not to be barbed by Singer. He did up the tent again, which caused him to be swallowed up in darkness until his eyes adjusted. Once it was closed, he settled and faced Singer’s faint outline.

“You’ve disturbed my sleep,” she said. “I hope you at least came prepared with whatever words you have to say.”

“I did,” Hawke lied.

“Well?”

The pointed condescension in the single syllable made Hawke rile. “First, I’d think that you owe me an apology.”

No. Wait. Wrong—

 _“I_ owe you an apology?” Singer repeated quietly. “I owe you nothing, Garrett Hawke. I am not bound to you. I am not your wife or betrothed or beloved. If you think I am going to give you any semblance of an apology for something you have constructed in that brain of yours, leave. Now.”

“You could have, have at least _said_ something,” he hissed. “Because no, you do not belong to me and I do not belong to you. But I do care for you, Singer. Very much. I—”

Hawke bit his lip suddenly, choking back the daft ramblings of his injured heart. “It is not that I distrust your abilities,” he spoke carefully. “I simply…In the future, I simply wish for you to, to trust us. Trust me. Not everything has to be a shock to the system. And yes,” he went on, “I understand that I would have made a fuss of it all, but do you believe me to be so obstinate that I would have found some way to stop you from the expedition?”

“…I did not want to create any more animosity than there already would be,” Singer said. Her iciness began to melt. “I don’t like to argue.”

“I know.” Hawke sighed and ran a hand through his slightly damp hair. “I understand your actions. I suppose I’ve barged into your tent just…just to say that I am sorry. You deserved more support, and you had none in me.”

A moment of silence passed between them. Then, Hawke heard a soft rustle. Singer’s hands found themselves atop his. He let out a breath.

“I’m sorry, too,” she spoke. “You, Aveline, and Varric spoke correctly about the inconsistencies in my reasoning for joining the expedition. It can be…it can be difficult for me to trust others on certain matters. I do trust you. I trust all of you. But, ah, when I take on such a personal venture, things…become messy for me.”

“Personal?” Hawke repeated. “More personal how?”

Singer exhaled. Her fingers laced through Hawke’s calloused ones. “If I am to trust you, then you must put a little trust in me for this. I try not to ask for trust; it should not be forced. But for this, I am.”

Hawke lifted up Singer’s hand to kiss her knuckles. “You have it,” he murmured against her warm skin.

He could feel her smile in the dark. “Thank you.”

“So, what, is there somebody you need to kill on this expedition? Spy on? Carver digs _excellent_ pits to bury bodies in. It’s one of his few talents.”

“Be nice,” Singer laughed softly. “And no, it’s nothing so nefarious. In fact, it might not be anything at all. I’m…following up on something.”

“Something? Not someone?” he prodded.

“Yes, something. Something in the Deep Roads.”

“Ah. Well, you’re in luck. Because we _are_ indeed going to the Deep Roads.”

She snickered at Hawke’s idiotic comment. It made him brim with pride. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“If I may press just a _tiny bit_ more until you cut out my tongue for knowing too much, what’s in the Deep Roads that’s so special? Planning on making a stink bomb that smells like darkspawn? Because that would clear a room in an instant.”

“It would start out like that, yes, but then we’d find out that people got the Blight through breathing it in,” Singer said in her plain tone that connoted humor. “I’d make no money off my invention.”

“Mm, yes, a fair point.”

“I’m actually going to research how to turn lyrium into a hard candy. It’d be a best-seller among templars. Meredith Stannard would have a bowl of it on her desk for her minions to take every time they visited her office.”

Hawke snorted a laugh. “I’ll praise the day when she chokes on one of them.”

“That’s the projected goal.”

Singer’s thumb ran over his palm. When their quiet laughter subsided, she said, “I’ll tell you more when we get there. First, I have to see if I’m chasing something substantial or not. If it’s hopeless, then I’d rather keep the disappointment to myself and not distract you or the others with it.”

“You don’t… _have…_ to keep it to yourself,” Hawke said. “Pain eases when it’s shared with others.”

“Ripe advice from you,” Singer said wryly. He gasped in fake affront, but a second later, familiar lips found his. She leaned back to whisper, “I’ll keep it in mind, Garrett.”

He hummed. She pulled him forward to rest on top of her, which he obliged. Even in the pitch black, Hawke could tell Singer didn’t forego luxury even when it came to camping; furs lined the floor of the tent, as well as blankets. “Maker, woman, why didn’t I come to you sooner?” Hawke murmured between rapidly heating kisses. “I could have been sleeping like a nobleman.”

“One of the many benefits of being on my good side,” Singer breathed. She smelled of lavender soap, and the scent made his head buzz.

Hawke chuckled into the crook of her neck. His hands found the bottom of her loose tunic and lifted it up. She shifted her body to get it over her head, and once it was off, Hawke tossed the garment aside. His lips found a breast, and as they latched on, her fingers ran through his hair.

“Did you…bathe before coming to see me?” she whispered, on the verge of a laugh.

He paused just to say, “Maybe,” before returning to his ministrations.

“And did you do it because you expected _this_ to happen?”

“No,” he said between moving from one breast to another. “I did it so you wouldn’t kick me out the moment I stuck my smelly head into the tent. I didn’t want you complaining about me leaving my _stench_ behind—I learned my lesson long ago, dear.”

“Good. I can’t wash out these furs easily. So don’t—”

“Get my spunk anywhere, yes, yes.”

Singer’s rich laughter reverberated in her chest. She drew Hawke back up to her mouth and moved to roll on top of him. She had nothing on but her smalls, and she made short work of stripping them both down to nothing. Hawke’s hands ran up and down Singer’s back, then firmly cupped her ass. He relished in the feeling of her bare body on top of his, and the reaction from her lower abdomen settling against his erection alone told him he wouldn’t last long tonight.

When Singer was ready enough to sink herself down around his cock, Hawke returned the favor by dipping his fingers onto the sweet spot that made Singer almost cry out. But they stayed quiet. Hands grasped at hair and the fur they laid upon to channel the euphoria, lips sealed by each other.

Afterward, Hawke drew Singer close to him underneath the blanket they shared. The kiss he pressed on her shoulder held all the words he dared not say out loud.

He did not use his bedroll again until the expedition found itself in the Deep Roads.


	10. Strange

“Are you sure you want to be here? It doesn’t seem to suit your…elevated dispositions.”

“What a fine way to say, ‘high maintenance,’” Singer said while she looked around at the high cavern walls. They didn’t seem to frighten her, nor did they particularly fill her with bright intrigue. She was almost…expectant, perhaps? With a touch of disappointment? Or was it nostalgia? But if it was, why?

Varric chuckled and shrugged. “Hey, a dwarf’s gotta ask. I know how you like to live your life. Just making sure _you_ are sure.”

“As a valued partner of the expedition, I require seeing my investment firsthand. Like I’ve explained before.”

“And as your accountant, manager, and dare I say, _friend,_ I want to be certain that you know—”

“Varric.”

Singer stopped and regarded him firmly, but it was not unkind. “You have repeated the same thing almost every day. And I have given you the same answer. Every day. Trust me when I say I am certain, I am sure, I am aware. Please, let’s not have this conversation again, pain you as it might. We have so much more important matters to focus our energy toward.”

“Am I being reprimanded? Chastised? Singer, how cruel!” Varric put a hand to his heart once he spoke.

 _“Reminded,”_ Singer said wryly. “For the final time, I will say that simply because I prefer the lifestyle that I do does not mean I can’t withstand roughing it in dangerous places.”

“Because you’ve been in rough and dangerous situations before?” Varric pried. They began walking again, falling in line with the stream of expeditioners.

“Are you becoming so desperate that you won’t even veil your inquiries about my past?”

He threw his hands up. “Maker, yes! I’m hoping you take pity on my poor mind. It verges on insanity because I can’t figure you out, I’ll have you know.”

“If that’s all it takes, then you’re not as resilient as I thought you were. I shall find another manager so you can spend the rest of your days raving and muttering over the complexities of a guarded woman.”

“Not even an ounce of comfort or sympathy! The viciousness!”

“Varric, you’re being dramatic.”

“The assaults won’t stop!”

“Is this dwarf bothering you?” Isabela asked, sidling up next to Singer and casually putting an arm around the elf’s shoulders. Side by side, Varric noted that the women were almost the same height with Isabela having the slight advantage in her boots.

“When is he not bothering me?” Singer sighed, but she patted the top of Varric’s head.

“Maker, isn’t that the question of the year,” Isabela snorted.

Varric and Isabela devolved the conversation into playful jabs and jokes, which left Singer free to wander to the caravan. She walked up beside the wagon Bodahn and his boy handled, hands loosely behind her back, head tilted up inquisitively with a nice smile as she spoke words Varric couldn’t hear.

The strangest thing, though, was that Singer didn’t talk to Bodahn.

“We’ve all been wondering the same thing on this whole journey, I think,” Isabela said once she caught where Varric’s concentration had gone. “Do you think she’s doing it for some kind of twisted humor?”

“Singer’s humor, as hard as it is to sort out, isn’t like that,” Varric said. Isabela hummed in agreement.

Sandal let out an enthusiastic, “Enchantment!” with arms raised to emphasize the word. Singer _actually_ tossed her head back and chuckled.

“It’s like she understands the poor boy,” said Isabela.

“I…wouldn’t put it past her,” Varric muttered.

Without a word or glance, the two wandered closer to the wagon, making sure to keep up their discussions about the pros and cons of poisoned weapons.

“…chantment?”

“Here? Now? I don’t want to draw attention to myself.”

“Enchantment.”

“Now, now, no need to roast me.”

Sandal giggled. “Enchantment!”

“Is that not a phrase here? Pity.”

“Ennnnchantment?”

“You are very persistent.”

“Enchantment.”

Singer sighed. “Oh, very well. But it is only because you asked nicely, and your father is kind.”

With a laugh, Bodahn said, “It is you who are too kind, serah.”

Sandal clapped his hands together. “Enchantment! Enchantment!”

They watched her swing up into the slow-moving wagon with surprising ease. Singer dug for something, and when she found what she was looking for, she unlatched the case and delicately brought up a lyre harp.

Varric thought to himself that he had no idea Singer also played the instrument aside from the small harp. It made sense. He’d have to consider that fact for the tour. Roadside preview to attract people to performances? Or was it beneath her?

Then again, Singer was softer than the appearance she put on. She liked performing to people, no matter the race or class. The one unfolding right before him proved as much.

He mentally noted to himself to ask Singer if she played the regular harp as well. He would have to look into some sellers upon their return to the surface.

Seated and propped up against the side of the cart, Singer placed the lyre harp on a thigh and plucked a few notes to tune them. After fidgeting with the pins, she gave one final look to an excited Sandal.

Singer strummed a chord. It echoed in the underground, and the caravan turned its entire focus on her.

Used to the attention, Singer’s fingers began to move across the strings, creating an unfamiliar melody. A few beats later, her voice poured into the Deep Roads, lulling and slow, lyrics for lovers. Her head swayed lightly to the thrum of the lyre harp, and Varric found himself unknowingly pulled in without realizing it. He’d never been a fan of the sea, but somewhere beyond the sea, his lover standing on golden sands, well, he guessed he could imagine it.

An ache behind his heart pinpricked, like a needle carefully undisturbed for so long he’d almost believed he had forgotten it.

When she finished with a lasting note, Varric and Isabela loudly clapped and cheered with the rest of the caravan. Hawke, from his standpoint a few meters away, whooped as he always did whenever Singer ended her performance.

Bartrand snapped for everyone to stop getting distracted by the elf’s singing. Singer nodded in concession with a smile, but she leaned forward and patted Sandal on the head, demureness forgotten when she grinned at him. He laughed and thanked her by saying, “Enchantment!”

“What a lovely voice!” Bodahn professed. “It nearly made me start to think I was hearing the Stone itself a few times, they sounded so perfect together!”

“Enchantment,” Sandal said with a…knowingness? To his tone.

“Thank you,” Singer said to Bodahn, but her eyes kept to Sandal. Then, when she noticed Varric and Isabela treading within earshot, her gaze slid to them.

Isabela simply grinned back and shot out some compliment Varric didn’t catch. He smiled himself, of course, but his mind slipped to a conversation they had two days ago when they first found the entrance to the Deep Roads.

Singer had only asked him if he heard the Stone like other dwarves. He replied that he did not, being a surface dweller and all. Traditionalist senses never suited him anyway.

Her unstated curiosity at the fact had much more fire beneath it than it should have had for some musician. She did not question him further.

Soon after Singer’s impromptu performance, the discovery of a cave-in forced the expedition to stop so scouts could assess which route to take.

The last thing Varric saw before the demands of his brother drew him away was Singer and Sandal walking together toward an outcropping of rocks.

-

“Maker—damned—woman!”

Hawke had been muttering curses under his breath and as loud as he could while they fought their way through darkspawn. The only times he withheld it all was when he didn’t want to get darkspawn blood in his mouth, and even then, it _tried_ him.

“I…hate to burden you, my friends, but I fear I must!” Bodahn had said, worry in his pale blue eyes. “I believe my boy, Sandal, wandered off. He’s somewhere in those passages right now! I beg you, keep an eye out for him. He just…doesn’t understand danger like he should. And oh, poor Messere Singer! She may have been pulled along with him in his innocent straying! I cannot find her anywhere!”

No, neither could they.

What if she came across a horde? An ogre? Outnumbered and no adequate weaponry? Or what if she got injured and took on the taint? What then?

“‘Oh, trust me, Hawke, I’m not going to do anything insane. Just following up on something!’” Hawke proclaimed in a falsetto voice. “‘Don’t mind me!’”

“Eh, you’re not getting the cadence right,” Carver _had_ to critique. He then put a hand to his chest and said, “It’s more like…” His voice raised an octave but turned husky and slow. “ ‘Hawke, I’m far too mys _ter_ ious for you. I am aloof, like a cat, and you stink like Ma _bar_ i.’”

“Do I look like I’m auditioning for a play, hm?” Hawke bit back much too loudly for people sneaking about in the Deep Roads. “And did you practice that impression in the mirror?”

“Your concern seems to outweigh any suspicion,” Fenris said. He walked up beside Hawke. “Suddenly running off into darkspawn territory with only Bodahn’s boy? She might not even be with him for that matter.”

“Perhaps she couldn’t convince him not to go off on his own, o-or she noticed that he disappeared and went after him without considering how far he could have wandered off?” said Merrill. “I simply cannot believe that Singer left for no purpose whatsoever.”

“That’s exactly what Ser Broody Tight Pants is trying to get at,” Anders responded. He and Fenris glared at each other simultaneously. “This…‘following up on something,’ Hawke, you never actually asked her what it was? In the _Deep Roads?”_

“I never had the chance!”

“Too busy following up in other areas,” Isabela smirked. Hawke made a wordless, strained noise of protest. She threw her hands up. “Hey, I get it. The Deep Roads isn’t exactly an… _intimate_ place, so trying to get in as much private time makes sense.”

“What _is_ your pillow talk like, I wonder?” Fenris mused.

“‘Oh, Singer, your eyes are so pretty, like pretty blue pools of blue,’” Anders continued, doing an impression of Hawke in the same style that Hawke did of Singer moments ago. “‘I think you’re _sooo_ beautiful—ouch! My nipples are sensitive! Don’t bite them!’”

Carver laughed.

“She does _not_ bite, your Fereldan accent is terrible, and I don’t sound like that.”

They rounded the corner and stuttered to a stop. The scene of carnage before them was…

Something.

“I don’t bite his nipples, no,” Singer said, her back turned to them. She examined an exposed vein of lyrium that hung just above her head. Her gray hair took on a silvery tone in the glow of the cavern. “And you should all practice being quieter, considering where you are.”

“Sing—” Hawke started, then remembered he was furious, _then_ realized he had stepped onto a discolored darkspawn intestine.

“Look, that’s Bodahn’s boy with her,” Varric pointed out. Several feet away, idly scratching his bum, Sandal hummed while he examined an inconspicuous piece of jutting stone.

Hawke noted that Singer did not have a single drop of blood or grime on her, and her hair remained perfectly composed. Sandal, on the other hand, was moderately drenched in fetid darkspawn gore. He didn’t seem to notice or mind. Neither of them, in fact, seemed to be bothered by the permeating stench that only worsened when darkspawn died.

Sandal turned to them as they warily approached. Singer resumed her examination of the lyrium vein, face shielded from their view with her position. “Hello,” Sandal chimed.

“The great warrior stands victorious!” Carver chuckled.

Hawke laughed a bit himself and approached Sandal, momentarily putting Singer’s presence off to the side. “I’d really like to know how you managed to kill all of them.”

Sandal held out his hand, and Hawke recognized a runestone. He had never seen the kind of glyph on it before, but he took it anyway for closer inspection.

“Boom.”

Hawke jutted his chin out to the _other_ inconceivably strange thing in the chamber. “And _how_ did you do that?”

The frozen ogre positioned several feet away, arms raised, head bowed, and jaw unhinged like it had no idea it was about to die.

Simply, Sandal replied, “Not enchantment.”

“Ah. Right. Of course.”

Sandal looked to Singer. “Enchantment?”

She hummed. “I suppose so. Your father is probably worried.”

“Enchantment.”

“I’m sorry,” Carver said, “but you can understand him?”

“It’s…not hard,” Singer responded. She put her face even closer to the lyrium vein. Varric made a slightly panicked noise.

“Whoa, hey, Singer, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. One touch, and you’ll get your brain scrambled…or worse.”

“I’m aware of the effects,” she said back. Hawke drew nearer to her, and he saw how the lyrium’s glow changed the color of her eyes, turning it almost icy and unnatural. She did not blink as she continued to stare at the vein. Or, rather, its depths, which Hawke could not discern.

“How funny lyrium is,” she mused quietly, but the chamber had grown still enough that her voice carried to everyone else. “How strange and endless its powers are. I think of Paragon Caridin, who made golems through lyrium with the Anvil of the Void.”

“You know that tale?” Varric inquired. The underlying tone in his casual voice made Hawke’s shoulders tense.

“I do. He used magic, not machinery, to create them. But the price was too high, and soon, Caridin himself paid the price. They could not bend his will, however, even as a golem, and he was sealed away, lost and forgotten. Anybody else who has also gone after the thaig where he was sealed has also been lost and forgotten.”

“The Warden found him,” Anders, surprisingly, muttered.

“Do you believe that?” Aveline asked.

“Yes.”

“I believe it as well,” Singer said. Anders regarded her sharply.

“You do? How? That…it’s not… _known.”_

“Isn’t it? Oh. I wasn’t aware.”

Singer let out a breath and finally turned away from the lyrium, eyes bright and clear. Her mouth, however, had a tightness to it even she couldn’t conceal.

“You talk like dwarves are magic,” Varric said, and he shot Sandal a wary glance.

But Sandal remained unassuming. “Enchantment!” he smiled back.

“Does it sound like that? Well. If anything, lyrium has magical properties. Powerful ones.” Singer looked to Fenris, whose brands turned a stark white from the hues. He glared back at her.

“Is this…what you were following up on? Lyrium properties?” Hawke asked, but he was dubious.

Singer’s expression changed to nonchalance. “No,” she replied crisply. Hawke frowned. “If that had been my purpose, I’d have no real need to come down here. I was just curious.”

She uncrossed her arms and motioned for Sandal to join her side. Why did Hawke have the feeling that this had been no accident? No “wandering off” like Bodahn had suggested?

Why did Singer fill him with such doubt? Yet why did he still _trust_ her as much as he did?

“Well, Lady Curious, you waltzed right into a darkspawn den without so much as a warning,” he snipped, still not ready to let go of his anger. “So, thank you for that. You should get back to camp before another group of darkspawn finds their way here.” He added a saccharine smile. “Though, since you’re so _expertly_ prepared for such enemies, I suppose you’ll have nothing to fear.”

Singer sent Hawke a look, but it was not as potent as it could have been. “I’m sorry for making you worry,” she said, her sincerity clear.

His heart warmed—

No!

“Just head back to camp, please?” he said, _his_ exasperation clear.

“Very well. But be careful; I’m almost certain there’s a small dragon up ahead. Try to kill it before it kills you. And if all goes well, you’d spare the world from another Blight.”

She put a hand on Sandal’s shoulder where there wasn’t a gob of blood. “Come, I shall play you a tune when we return.”

“Enchantment!” A pause. “Enchantment?”

Before they were beyond earshot, Hawke heard Singer’s voice turn the saddest he had ever heard it. “Yes, it does.”

The group stood in silence for several moments after, trying—and failing—to untangle what had just been said.

Finally, Isabela broke the quiet. “I have no idea what just happened.”

Aveline tapped the frozen ogre with her blade. It _tinged._ “Frozen solid from what I can tell. It was definitely magic of some sort.”

“The boy said he didn’t use an enchantment, though,” Anders said, intrigue causing him to pace, uncaring of the darkspawn parts strewn underneath him. His time as a Warden had culled any disgust toward the gore. “Not enchantment? What does that mean?”

Fenris snorted. “You are all too oblivious. Singer used magic to do that.” He gestured to the ogre.

“If she was a mage, why would she hide it from us?” Merrill questioned, leaning on her staff. “We’re a lovely sort of people, mages included.”

“I don’t think Singer has lasted as long as she has in this world by giving up her secrets,” Varric sighed, but his mind wandered from the long-debated topic of Singer’s magical abilities. “And what _was_ that story about Paragon Caridin? Surfacers don’t know anything about him or the anvil—you aside, Blondie. By the way: how?”

“The Warden-Commander,” Anders shrugged. “She told stories. But…Singer acted like she had already _known_ what the Warden found in the Deep Roads, then she was surprised that it wasn’t common information.”

“Grand as it is to talk about how _odd_ Singer is, I feel like this conversation won’t go anywhere,” Carver stated. “Like all the times it has before. She’s strange. Probably a mage. Probably some spy or spymaster. Probably an escaped slave. Probably more. But who fucking cares right now? In case you haven’t noticed, our _boots_ are getting soaked with darkspawn blood, which will never come out. Can we please move on and fight a dragon that’s most likely there? Because if you haven’t noticed, Singer’s predictions are almost always bloody right, making her probably some seer as well, just to add to the fucking list.”

Everyone stared at Carver for a few seconds, mildly surprised at his brusque astuteness.

He blushed and scowled. “What?”

“Nothing, dear brother,” Hawke said with a smirk. “Although, I’m going to tell Mother you swore when we return to Kirkwall.”

“Shut it, you cock.”

-

And, of course, there was a dragon.

As Hawke cleaned the blade end of his stave, Isabela came up to him, expression pinched. She tapped a foot on the ground and twirled a blade between her fingers.

“Yes?” Hawke asked when she didn’t speak. “Come to admire my muscles as I clean my shaft?”

“Funny,” Isabela said flatly. “She—Singer.”

“What about her?”

“She’s searching for something.”

“I guessed that much.”

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said at Sundermount after she had no luck with that fucking creepy altar you released the witch from.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, _ah._ She told me she was searching for a way home. Then all her…horse shit talk of lyrium and magic, it—” Isabela pursed her lips, and she fixed Hawke with her gaze. “Be careful. This is the last place to put loyalties and agendas to the test.”

“…Alright.”

Isabela’s uncharacteristically serious words stayed with Hawke the rest of the way back to camp. After they had told Bartrand the good news to begin moving again and Bodahn profusely thanked him for saving Sandal, he found Singer near the back of the caravan. She walked by herself, gaze downward and mind elsewhere.

Hawke strode up to her, not too quickly but not too slowly either. Normal pace. Yes.

Singer noticed his approach and smiled, but it did not meet her eyes.

“Hello,” she greeted.

“There was indeed a dragon,” Hawke said, too impatient for preamble. “A small one. But a dragon, nonetheless. How did you know?”

“I could smell it. They’re pungently reptilian.”

“Ah. So, you’ve encountered them before?”

She gave him a look. Wry and fond. “I’m not sure any of you fully allow yourselves to believe that I have lived, and continue to live, quite an exciting life.”

“So you prove time and time again.”

“Is that a note of bitterness I hear?”

“Not bitterness. Not sure what it is, actually. You told me to trust you, and I do, Singer, I truly do, but it doesn’t come without its questions. You told me you would explain more once we arrived, and here we are, a week in.”

“And I’ve said not a word,” she said quietly.

“I…didn’t want to push it, dear, but that… _situation_ we just had with the, the lyrium and you and Bodahn’s strange boy? I can’t make sense of it.” Hawke paused. “Is that who you’ve been after?”

“Sandal Feddic? No. No, I said I wasn’t after anyone. Sandal is just an interesting person that not enough people take seriously.”

“You were after some _thing.”_

“Yes.”

Without all eyes on them, Singer’s hand found his.

“And you still cannot tell me?” Hawke said, drawing her a tad closer.

Singer sighed, unable to speak.

He pressed on, careful to maintain his neutral tone. “Isabela…said you once looked for a way home, and you required magical means to do so. Is that what this is about?”

When he looked to Singer, he found her face full of plain exhaustion and sorrow. It took Hawke off-guard and ignited an ache in his chest. She suddenly looked older and younger at once, vulnerable.

Then it was gone, leaving nothing but a trace in her blue eyes.

Hawke opened his mouth to say something, but he couldn’t find the right words. So, he instead put an arm around Singer’s shoulder and pulled her close to him. She exhaled and leaned into his frame, a hand splaying against his back.

“I apologize for smelling like darkspawn,” he said blithely, but the tenderness in his touch remained. “Anders washed it all off us with some useful spell I’ve been too lazy to learn, but there was nothing he could do about the stench.”

“It’s alright,” she said. “You’ve smelled worse.”

“I take offense to that, my lady!”

But Singer chuckled softly, and all the residual anger Hawke clung to left him.

Voice lowering again, he said, “If you need help, we can offer it. Anders and Merrill are well-versed in the arcane. I have a bit of knowledge rattling around in my head as well, not to gloat or anything.”

She tilted her head up to him. “I know all of you would.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I have a tendency to make sure of things on my own before I decide to reach out.”

“Right, right. Wasted effort and hope. Look at us, though! Look at me! We’ve thrived off wasted effort and hope. Your dilemma won’t affect us in the slightest.”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.” Singer took a breath and slipped out from under Hawke’s arm. She took his hand again, though, to show she wasn’t upset. “My investigations are secondary. Focus on the expedition.”

“Ah, I did miss that deflection.”

“Garrett. I mean it.”

The use of his first name made Hawke give Singer another glance. She stared straight ahead, sharp jaw clenched.

“Singer-typical deflection aside, I’d say you have concerns about what we’ll face in these horrid depths. More than most. More than me.”

She caught him with her gaze when it finally turned up to him. “I came here for a reason, didn’t I?”

He stared back at her, searching for a crack in her guard, but he couldn’t find one. Not unless she willingly allowed it to be there.

Singer was not dishonest.

“What are you trying to get at?” he questioned. Her eyes glinted.

“Dark and dangerous things await.”

She let go of Hawke’s hand and strode forward, suddenly at ease. “Oh, and since I can’t wander off, I’m coming with you and your little group on all forward parties.”

The anger, irate and nervous, returned. Hawke grumbled in the back of his throat and strode to catch up with Singer’s pace. She was too damn tall for an elf, and in this moment, it was not endearing in the slightest.

“You…” Hawke tried to seethe, but it wound up a strangled choke. “You are infuriating.”

His comment only seemed to amuse Singer. She looked back over her shoulder and grinned at him. _Grinned._ One moment, she was all gloom and doom, low voice and half-truths, and the next, she had a sway to her hips and a crinkle in her nose and—

It occurred to Hawke that he had no idea who this woman was.

It also occurred to Hawke that it did not frighten him like it should have.

Yes, he conceded internally, Singer could come with them. Then amidst all the dark and dangerous things, he might finally glimpse her intentions, her thoughts, her…herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ["Beyond the Sea"](https://open.spotify.com/track/3KzgdYUlqV6TOG7JCmx2Wg?si=bW-DyXZKRNGef-VpGCC0sg)


	11. Very Strange

Hawke sidled up to Singer, who stood in front of one of the lyrium veins protruding from the ancient thaig like a spire. She bore a pensive expression, far from the neutral intensity she held when they first found her studying a vein a day ago.

Blue mingled with the odd red veins of lyrium, casting an assortment of clashing or melding colors depending on where Hawke looked.

“So?” he asked. “What’s the verdict, my lady scholar? Do you know what this is?”

“Red lyrium.”

“Hey, I could have come up with that name all on my own. Is that the best you can do?”

“Think lyrium, but evil. Hence the red color.”

“Well, tell that to Bartrand. He’s already scheming on how he can profit off of this _new_ and _mysterious_ lyrium.”

“He won’t be scheming for long.”

Hawke crossed his arms. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Singer shook her head. “Just…whatever you do, Garrett, _please_ don’t touch this stuff. Can’t you feel it? What it’s doing to you? Doesn’t it make you sick to stand near?”

He put a hand to the nape of his neck where he began feeling a dull throb a short while ago. Not to mention his stomach had started to ache, but he attributed it to the truly atrocious meal of dried foods he had and the fact that he hadn’t shit in two days.

“Sing, have you…been around this before?”

She gave him another brief, old look of sorrow, then linked her arm around his to steer them away from the vein. “Long ago, I had.”

“And?” Hawke prompted, knowing better than to ask, “How long ago?” because it’d end the conversation with Singer rather than keep it going. He followed the same routine whenever any discussions with Fenris verged into his life as a slave. The two possessed very similar traits in that area, and Hawke did not forget how Fenris could spot a fellow runaway when he saw one, no matter how much time had passed.

“It deserves to be kept down here, lost and forgotten like anything else that ventures into these pre-Deep Roads thaigs.”

“So they _are_ prior to the Deep Roads? Bartrand was right about that, then.” Hawke grimaced. “Though, he’s more preoccupied with the money to be made rather than the knowledge to be found—or hidden away, as you recommend.”

“How can they _not_ predate the known dwarven Deep Roads?”

This new side of Singer emerged, a side of focused detail and observation, which mingled with excitement and dread. A distinct kind of energy radiated off her, and she pulled Hawke along while she continued to speak. He struggled not to stare, though this was considered typical.

“Bartrand acted like there was nothing that could have predated the dwarven empire as we know it, as if it has always been as it always was. But the First Blight decimated the empire’s entire history and technology, and with it, knowledge of a time before paragons and deshyrs, a caste system, a _Deep Roads.”_

“You take particular interest in dwarven history,” Hawke said. “All this talk of paragons and empires and lyrium. Why is that?”

They passed another one of the strange red veins. Singer eyed it warily, and Hawke felt her arm tense against his. She never… _reacted_ like this. Was it truly such a bad thing? And where had she seen it before? From what Bartrand told Hawke, nobody had ever truly discovered this red lyrium. They were occasionally told in old mining tales, but everything had been accepted as legend or lies or both.

“The…strangest things happen in the Deep Roads,” Singer said, speaking slowly to turn her words into a careful dance. “The Blights all originate from underground. Lyrium grows like vines, not minerals. Golems and archdemons, darkspawn, ancient demons. More and more. It is an endless source of magic, twisted and pure and everything in between. I’ve learned that all the tales here, sooner or later, find their way to the light of truth. But it’s often a terrible light, isn’t it? It shakes the foundations of what holds Thedas together.”

Singer gestured to the high ceiling above them. “Even _this_ alone would put the Shaperate into uproar.”

Hawke drawled, “But why do I have a feeling the Shaperate won’t know much of this beyond reports by the time we’re done?”

“Believe me,” Singer said solemnly, “it will be a blessing…for now.”

“‘For now?’ Are you getting all prophetic on me, Sing?”

“I am not prophetic.”

“You have an acute approximation of future events.”

“I merely take in the cause and effect of this discovery by a type of person like Bartrand and his crew. It will not be hidden forever. This has festered for long enough. It will want to spread. People…will want to spread it.”

“Mm. Keep talking.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak this much for this long about something you’re so passionately disgusted about.”

She stared at him for a moment, testing the fortitude of Hawke’s spirit with her gaze, but he remained stout and smiling. Eventually, Singer settled with a scoff. “You just want to sift through my stream of sentences to find something about me.”

“Exactly! It’s like a fun little game, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

“But don’t let me interrupt you. Please, continue to regale me with your insights. I enjoy it very much.”

“Now you’re just filling my head because you know how much I like the sound of my own voice.”

“And _I_ like the sound of your voice. It’s much nicer than Varric’s—” Hawke whispered in her ear, “but don’t tell him I told you that. He’ll never forgive me.”

Her chuckle stayed trapped in her throat, and a trick of the lyrium light that they passed almost led Hawke to believe it glowed brighter for a moment at her sound.

“Let’s be careful, shall we?” Singer prompted as they walked closer to where the group loosely gathered. “Don’t want to awaken an Old God by stomping around.”

“You’ve brought up Blights and archdemons and Old Gods a bit too much for comfort,” said Hawke, giving her a plain look. “Please don’t tell me we’ll run into one.”

She considered it for a moment, and Hawke made a noise. “Mm. I doubt it. But do you smell the lack of darkspawn stench? It means they haven’t been down this deep. It means…they, too, could potentially discover things…souls…that have previously been undisturbed.”

Hawke shuddered. A hot flush made him sweat, though he couldn’t tell if it was from the red lyrium humming around him (Maker, had it always been humming? How strange) or from the thought of another Blight erupting so close to Kirkwall.

“Yes, we’ll be careful,” he agreed. He glanced at her back. “Um, but are you sure you need what…you’re carrying?”

Singer rustled her packs, pans, bedroll, and lyre. “I come prepared for anything,” she said. “Who knows if we’ll get trapped down here forever.”

“And your lyre?”

“I’ll sing us a funeral song as we all slowly die of the Blight or starvation or both.” She paused. “Did you know that females who get the taint may turn into broodmothers if they’re caught by darkspawn? It’s nasty business. Kill us if we do. The darkspawn will easily catch our scent otherwise.”

“Broodmothers? What are broodmothers?”

 _“Don’t_ say that word ever again,” Anders snapped, hearing the conversation between Hawke and Singer as they approached. He gave Singer an appalled sneer. “Where did you learn this stuff? I’d say you were a Warden, but I can’t sense the taint in you. Did you spend time with some?”

“In a sense, yes,” Singer nodded, like it was the most obvious information in the world. “If I was a broodmother—”

“What did I _say_ about that word?”

“—I’d produce shrieks.”

“Oh, well, congratulations,” Anders said sarcastically. “I’ll send you a bouquet on your first batch of fifty spawnlings.”

“One rose for each of my grotesque mounds of breasts.”

“Have you _seen_ one?” Anders practically yelled.

“Not like you have.”

“In any other circumstance, I’d like to know more about how a brood—” Merrill started to say the word, but Anders shot her a withering glare. “A _she._ But being down here, where it’s all dark and spooky and Blighty, I’m not sure I want to give myself more nightmares.” Her ear twitched, and she regarded a red lyrium vein several feet away. “I don’t care for this kind of lyrium, either, although it _would_ warrant study at some point.”

“Singer says it’s evil, so don’t touch it,” Hawke stated.

“You’ve seen it before?” Varric questioned her.

She said the same thing to him as she did to Hawke. “A very long time ago. It…”

Whatever Singer was going to say, she swallowed and shook her head once, eyes distant. “Just don’t.”

“Well,” Carver sighed when nobody else spoke for several moments, too perturbed by Singer’s reaction, “this will be a delight.”

They looked out to a passage before them. “Whatever’s through there,” said Varric, “it seems still intact. Think we’ll find anything?”

“Bartrand is far more enthralled with this place than you are,” said Hawke.

“Unlike him, I wasn’t born in Orzammar. I wouldn’t even be down here if there wasn’t profit in it.” Varric became grim. “This entire place gives me the chills. Let’s hope it’s worth it.”

Hawke looked back to Singer. From what he saw, _no_ , it would not be worth it.

He was torn between being comforted and concerned about her presence here.

They descended into the blue glow of the tunnels, broken by small veins of red in the ancient stone.

-

Singer crouched down beside the crumbling remains of the golem. She pressed a hand to the side of its crude face.

“Why do you caress that thing like a fallen lover?” Fenris snarked.

“It was a person, soul-bound to stone and lyrium. Why would I not grieve for it and celebrate its freedom?” Her head tilted. “I wonder who it was. A warrior? Brave and good but controlled? Or was it a criminal? Lashing as they tried to break free of the chains holding them down before the Anvil struck them? Was it simply a merchant who made the wrong political enemy? When they awoke, did they go mad from not being able to breathe, to sleep, to feel the touch of the one they love?”

Fenris’ scowl turned flat. He spun away from her. “Never mind.”

When he passed Hawke, who fruitlessly wiped demon ichor off his arm, Fenris said, “Your lover is disturbing.”

“In an adorable way,” Hawke said back, loud enough for Singer to hear.

She stood. The pack she carried didn’t seem to wear her down despite the short skirmish. Singer smiled at him, but it did not crinkle her nose or eyes, nor was it as wide as it could have been.

They continued down the path, and the blue lyrium twisted to pure red. The humming grew, a song so silent and still that he didn’t notice it creeping inside his skull until it made his head pound and stomach twist. Itches crawled up and down his back.

“Justice squirms inside me,” Anders muttered to Hawke and Singer. “It’s as if he wishes to flee.”

“Maybe he does,” Singer said back. “He senses the unnatural. The corruption.”

 _She is correct,_ Justice whispered in the back of Anders’ head, voice a clear bell in the midst of the lyrium humming. _She understands. She witnessed its birth, its grave. Yet here it is again, and she grieves for what it means. I sense justice in her. Vengeance. It sings._

Anders stayed quiet, not wanting to linger on Singer too long. She’d grow suspicious.

“It usually isn’t this…loud,” Varric stated. He wiped at his brow in the cool tunnel. “And is it just me, or does it kind of, hm, sound different?”

“Keep moving,” Singer said, voice not raised but still firm. They complied.

Red lyrium branched above the door’s archway, weaving like vines. Aveline and Carver pushed the ancient door together, and when it cracked, a waft of peculiar acrid air hit their noses.

Hawke was close enough to Singer to hear her small shudder.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t move away from it.

They entered the chamber, which proved to be spacious and largely unaffected by cave-ins. Varric whistled. “Now _this_ is really something,” he commented. His voice echoed, and although red lyrium veins crawled up a few of the pillars and the sides of the walls, they were no longer close enough to hear any hums.

“Now, what does that lovely long staircase lead to?” Isabela inquired, tipping her chin in the direction ahead of them. “I don’t know where you all lost your stomachs along the way, but I still plan to get a little bit rich down in this underground asshole.”

They trekked up the stairs, and as they moved, Varric huffed, “Maker’s ass, did they have to make the steps so big? They’re like human-sized ones.”

“Or elven,” Merrill sweetly said. “Do you need my staff for support?”

“I’m not that dead yet, Daisy, but thank you.” To Singer, Varric called, “And what about you, huh, Singer? Your thighs on fire yet from carrying around an entire cart on your back?”

“No,” Singer replied. “And you’re exaggerating.”

“That’s what I do best.”

Carver stopped near Singer to catch his breath. “Won’t these stairs ever stop?” he asked. Singer came beside him and touched underneath his elbow in quiet support.

“Take your time. You fought hard earlier. Get your stamina back.”

“You’d flatter me, my lady, if you weren’t packing ten stones’ worth of weight on your back without a drop of sweat.”

“It’s not that heavy.”

While she trailed behind with Carver, Hawke came to the top of the stairs first. A rather simplistic altar sat in the middle of the flat and empty surface.

A strange, haunting figurine had been placed upon the altar. A skeletal woman, crown rimmed into a single point at the front, some half-circle behind her, held other skeletal figures underneath her arms, each clawing up to her, pure red lyrium jutting from the bottom and curling up the sides of the figures, glowing, _growing,_ like Singer had described—growing.

Anders said something beside him, muted. Varric replied with something else.

The hum grew, _growing,_ curling inside his skull and twining up the sides of bone and tissue.

He picked up the figurine.

The humming vanished. Ah. Why had he picked it up again?

“Look, Bartrand,” Varric called. The world had suddenly become clear again. “An idol made of—”

_Smack!_

The idol flew from Hawke’s grasp and sailed into the air. He would have watched it soar until it clattered on the staircase, but a more powerful presence forced his focus away.

Hawke nearly stumbled back when he saw Singer’s face twisted with harsh anger and fright. It made her show her teeth, canines white in the dimness of the chamber. Her nose crinkled like a bear when it snarled, when it roared, when it showed its fury to the world.

“What were you _thinking?”_ she shouted. Her voice cracked through the stale, acrid air like a heavy whip, booming with all the might that typically projected her voice to crowds and patrons. Now, it was almost a physical force. “I told you not to touch anything! Do you think you can just go around picking up ancient idols like you’re fucking Indiana Jones and not expect any consequences? You don’t _know_ why it is here!”

Her grip became iron around Hawke’s wrist, which she still held. “Singer, I, I—” Hawke weakly sputtered, “I’m sorry—”

It was only because he tried to look away from Singer’s unrelenting rage that he saw the door they came through shutting. All the others had been too stunned to notice anyone but Singer.

“The—the door!” Hawke managed to yell out. Singer’s berating cut off, and she snapped her head to the left, eyes gone wide but teeth still bared.

They flew down the stairs to catch it in time, but the moment Hawke’s hand reached the stone, it closed right in front of his face, resound in its grumbling echo.

“Bartrand!” Varric called. He failed to conceal his panic. “It’s shut behind you!”

Hawke heard Bartrand’s muted laugh on the other side. He kicked at the door, but he knew it would yield no results. “You always did notice everything, Varric.”

“Are you _joking?_ You’re going to screw over your own brother for a lousy idol?”

“It’s not just the idol! The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune, and I’m not splitting that four ways!” Bartrand’s voice grew distant. “Sorry, Brother!”

“Bartrand! _Bartrand!”_

But it was done. No matter how much everyone tried to get the door open, whether through force or magic or both, it wouldn’t budge.

“The entrance was purposefully designed to not allow anyone out,” Singer said. She leaned up against a pillar, packs and lyre by her feet.

“That would have been helpful to know _beforehand,”_ Fenris snarled. She had returned to her impassivity, however, and his remark did not rile her.

“I forgot about it until now. My apologies.”

Before any of them could let it sink in that they _were trapped underground,_ Singer clicked her tongue. “Well. Let’s get going. No time to waste.”

 _“What?”_ Anders hissed. “You can’t just, just—”

“You speak as though you’ve lived in these tunnels, Singer.”

Aveline’s low voice cut through the air that still made Singer’s nose crinkle from time to time. She faced the elf, and slowly, so did everyone else. Hawke’s hand remained on the door as if he hoped it would miraculously open at any moment.

Singer pushed herself off a pillar and began slinging her items back on. “Yes, that’s right,” she said while she worked.

After being so used to her idle deflections and veiled responses, the short, frank reply struck them dumb.

Singer gazed about the chamber with a mix of bitterness and longing.

“Come. I will tell you on the way. Not everything, but enough to sate many of your current questions. The faster we move, the less rations we will have to consume.” She gestured to the packs with her thumb. “I feared something like this would happen. With Bartrand, with any of you. With me, even. That’s why I brought what I did. Be glad, Varric, that it did not drive your brother to homicidal madness.”

“But he still has it,” Varric said, tone stiff.

“He does,” Singer sighed. “It escapes with him. It will grow. But do not blame yourself for whatever happens. If anything, I’m sorry for not being more vigilant. I was…distracted.”

Singer met Hawke’s solemn gaze. “I’m sorry for being harsh with you as well. I was simply afraid. I don’t think the red lyrium’s effects did anything to help, either.”

Hawke came up to her and took a pack. “Think nothing of it,” he said. “But can you grip me like that in bed next time?”

Carver and Aveline groaned, Singer chuckled, and Hawke managed to reclaim some steadiness in the pits of the earth.

She guided the wary party back up the stairs and smaller door on the far end of the chamber, which led farther into the deep beyond the Deep Roads. It was ajar, so it didn’t take much effort to force it open. But, as soon as they walked through, they were met with several dark tunnels marred only by dim and eerie red lyrium. All beckoned for them to trail down their paths and never be seen again.

Anders lifted a small globe of light into the air for the humans. “Maker,” he whispered. “How are we…”

“Hush, please,” Singer gently interrupted. “I’m trying to listen.”

“Listen to what?” Varric asked with a fair amount of incredulousness. “The Stone? Elves—elves don’t have Stone sense. _I_ don’t even have Stone sense.”

“I learned how to survive down here,” Singer said without glancing back. Her pointed ears twitched, head tilting slightly to the left. “And in order to survive, I had to learn how to listen to the Stone. It did not abandon me. It cared for me as long as I proved I could be strong enough for that care.”

They shut their mouths to let Singer do her work, and when she pointed to the third tunnel to the left, she said, “This way. It will lead us.”

“What would we have done without you, Sing,” Isabela drawled. She laid thick into her sarcasm to hide her shudder.

“Yes,” Singer pondered sincerely. “What would you have done? Mm. I suppose I won’t ever find out.”

“Alright, alright, _now_ can you explain?” said Varric. “Because if the Shaperate ever finds out that an elf can possess Stone sense, they’ll shit their ancient pants.”

“They won’t have to know, will they?” Her hand reached out to the uneven (but not as uneven as it should have been) wall. “I am but one person. I won’t threaten their entire system.”

Under his breath, Varric muttered, _“Yet.”_

Back illuminated by the globe floating above Anders, Singer began to speak.

“I had been…abandoned in the Deep Roads. Forgotten. I knew nothing but terror and loss, and I resigned myself to die within the black. But…the Stone heard my cries, sensed my despair. It reached out in its ancient song, and it began to teach me. If I listened, I would live. If I failed to listen, I would die.”

The path abruptly curved, hidden in the shadows. Singer leaned into it without stumbling like the others.

“Time does not exist within the Stone. I can’t tell you how long I spent in the dark, but after a while, I found that the dark is not the dark. It is shades of lyrium light, the dim red of churning lava, the humble luminescence of glow worms and deep mushrooms, the ripples in air where the Fade dances.

“I stopped being afraid. I would sometimes miss the feeling of sun on my skin, but…”

Singer paused for a moment to shape her words. “The Stone gave me its own sunlight, and the ache lessened until I no longer remembered the difference. Soon after, I was welcomed into it in full, and I would have spent my days in its safety if I could have. They…it liked hearing many of my own songs and stories. We learned together.”

They came to another diverging fork in the tunnel. Singer took out one of her throwing knives and tapped the tip against the wall. The noise, high-pitched and faint, echoed.

Moments later, the top of the tunnel and the high sides illuminated with specks of blue. Although it provided little light, darkness no longer threatened them everywhere that Anders’ magic did not touch.

“It…looks like an upside-down river,” Merrill said rather breathlessly. Her yellow-glinting eyes widened with sincere awe, and Hawke had to wryly think that, of course, Merrill would find beauty in such a bleak place. “What are they?”

“Glow worms. Their secretions. A mix, I guess. But they’ve been here long before us, and they’ll be here long after. They react to the reverberations in the rock, a…small song, and when one glows, they all glow.” Singer pointed up to a grouping. “Do you see how they shy away from that tiny red lyrium vein? They know it will make them sick, so they don’t feed off it like they would regular lyrium.”

“They eat the lyrium?” Anders inquired, curiosity edging his voice.

“Mm. Yes. It’s the lifeblood, after all.”

Singer continued on with them moving close behind her. She tucked the knife away, and the new, ethereal river-light turned her skin a soft bluish green, like some being from another realm.

“But my time was not meant to last.” Her narration turned resigned, but Hawke heard the melancholy she tried to shield behind her indifference. “I was discovered and, due to the unique nature of my circumstances and skills, immediately enslaved.”

The simple affirmation of her past, as fragmented as it was, did not give them cause to celebrate. If anything, it turned Hawke’s stomach more than the red lyrium did, and his fists clenched with helpless fury.

“The times I was forced to return to the Deep Roads, it was for cruel research, either on my part, the Stone’s, or both.”

Her shoulders shifted beneath the strange light, firm and unbowed. The shoulders of a slave freed.

Singer turned her head over one of the shoulders and flashed them a grin. Her teeth gleamed white, elven eyes unblinking and reflective. “But never did I submit.”

The words carried as much weight as the rock above them.

-

When the glow worms faded, the light of red lyrium took their place. It brightened enough of the halls, which went from rough-hewn back to architectural, but with its light came the persistent hum that nagged at the base of Hawke’s skull.

“We’re on the right path,” Singer confirmed. “The tunnels we walked through were…mm, an escape route. But these passages will take us onward.”

“I hate the Deep Roads,” Anders complained, and not for the first time. “I hate this… _lyrium._ It’s making my taint senses all, all jumpy.” To Singer, who walked ahead, he asked, “Any idea why that is, hm, Lady Endless Well of Forbidden Knowledge?”

Singer abruptly stopped, raising a hand.

Anders couldn’t help but ask, “Was it what I said? Honestly, I—”

A moment later, demons poured out from the walls and crawled up from the floor, rasping and shrieking. Hawke leaped forward, pushing Singer behind him, weapon wielded. Magic sprung through him, and he cut through a hissing shade with the end of his stave. “Get Singer out of the way!” he commanded to the rest of the party.

Singer was handed and jostled into the center of the forming circle, but the semi-close quarters of the chamber they had treaded into made it difficult for them to fight freely and still maintain their positions. Magic burst through the air, all different auras from Hawke’s rapid exchange of fire and ice, Anders’ combination of green glyphs and bright healing energy, and Merrill’s powerful entropic casts fueled by her blood magic.

Varric situated himself nearest to Singer. His crossbow bolts fired into demons, but that only amplified their rage. Isabela lurked and stabbed from flanking positions while Aveline, Fenris, and Carver took the demons head-on.

The sheer _waves_ at which the demons came at them nearly overwhelmed the party on multiple occasions. The red lyrium reflected off their oily bodies and talons. Shrieks and screeches pierced Hawke’s ears, making it nearly impossible to hear everyone yell at each other for backup or potions. Mostly, they just cursed.

“Varric! Isabela!” Hawke shouted as loud as he could while he shoved demons back with a swell of fire. They growled and pushed onward, flames rolling off their bodies more easily than they should have. These were old demons. Powerful. “Get Singer out of here! We’ll try to carve a path for you!”

“And _where_ are you going to do that?” Isabela shouted back testily. “I’m up to my—bloody—tits in demons!”

Amid the erratic pulses of light from magic, Hawke took a chance to try and spot Singer to see if she was alright. When he did, he saw Varric nearly trip back into her as she crouched over her lyre case, which lay flat on the ground. “Singer—” Varric yelled. “What in the Maker’s ass are you _doing?”_

“That’s a bad sign!” Carver put in. “It means we’re about to die, and—” He blocked a blow from a demon swiping too close to him. “She’s going to sing a farewell song!” Blood streaked down the side of Carver’s face, much like it had when they fought off darkspawn outside of Lothering, much like it had on Bethany’s own face after she—

A demon broke through the line Aveline and Fenris tried to hold, charging straight to Varric and Singer. Varric, being the only one paying attention between the two of them, swore and aimed his crossbow at it, but the bolts did little to prevent the demon from swiftly moving in. Hawke, too far away to do anything up close and too fearful that a wide-range attack would harm his friends, thrust his stave out to send a spirit bolt at it. The demon stumbled at the impact, howling, but it still had enough strength to bring its talons up, ready to strike Varric down. He held his crossbow up as a shield, Hawke shouted Varric’s name, and Singer stood, lyre in front of her.

A singular note _plucked_ through the chamber with such force that it washed out the chaos of battle and made the inside of Hawke’s head ring.

It rippled through the ranks of demons, and the claw poised to gouge into Varric just…froze for a moment, like it had been paralyzed. Disoriented. Distracted.

Nobody else knew what to fucking do, so they stood there as well, weapons at the ready, drenched with demon ichor and their own blood, breaths heavy.

The demon in front of Varric regained some of its movement, and its talons flexed again while it let out a low growl.

_“Stop.”_

If the note hadn’t been strong enough, Singer’s voice carried the power of a hammer striking an anvil.

The demon halted again.

Singer, expression simultaneously unconcerned and focused, weaved past Varric. Her fingers began to strum a…a _very_ jaunty tune.

“Come, spirits, listen to my music, and harm these trespassers no more,” Singer ordered clearly. She walked forward, and her hips began to sway to the beat she created. As she passed Hawke, once again taking lead, she whispered to him underneath the music, eyes intense. “Do _not_ interfere and break what I’m doing.”

He could only give her a stupid nod in response. Singer winked at him and continued on. The demons, the _fucking demons,_ followed her, pacified and incredibly interested in what she played. Fenris raised his great sword, snarling, but Hawke quickly waved for him to stand down.

Singer moved to the middle of the chamber to draw everything to her, as comfortable as she would have been at the center of the stage in The Foal’s Meadow. Demons bumped them occasionally, but they had no interest in Hawke or anyone else. They had become her….her _audience,_ for lack of a better word.

What the fuck was going on?

From the look on their faces battered faces, the same question plagued everyone else.

As the tempo increased, however, so did Singer’s own movement. Her music pulled _more_ demons from the ground and the walls like sweating drops of condensation, but they did not attack. They gathered around Singer, hunger radiating off them, consuming the sound of the strange tune and the sight of Singer’s increasingly odd movements.

When she began to sing about some incomprehensible tale, Hawke realized that Singer was _dancing._

And she was really having fun.

Hawke watched her kick her legs out, spin wildly, bounce on her heels, toss her head back, shimmy her shoulders, jump up and down, jut her hips from side to side, and walk backward and forward, stopping her movement at random intervals before picking it back up again.

Maker, she was fucking grinning.

She looked so, so _silly._

Singer. Silly.

_Singer! Silly!_

Out of all the impossible discoveries down here, the fact that Singer could have such blatant, unpracticed, uncoordinated joy while she sang and played something just as bizarre astounded Hawke.

He had no idea if this was their chance to run or if they needed to stay and keep watch to make sure the demons didn’t spring on Singer once her bloody fantastic and absurd song ended. Between the notes and chords, he caught snippets of a rushing queen, greatest love something, and, of course, ra ra raspooting. What did it mean? He didn’t know! Neither did anyone else! But the demons absolutely loved it! Why else would they watch her and not attack? Not howl or shriek?

The malicious sense of hunger drifted, changed, reshaped. Though the hunger still persisted, Singer’s music and song (and quite possibly dance) turned it excited and eager. Light.

She finished the strumming with a dramatic flourish. Her chest fluttered—but not in a frightened way. Singer swept her gaze across the chamber an instant after, causing Hawke to do the same.

The number of demons, he realized, were _far_ fewer than what had originally been in the chamber. He’d just been so distracted by the—the impromptu concert Singer put on for a horde of some of the most terrifying creates on Thedas. The remaining ones, accepting that the song was now over, straightened and, and, and _dissipated_ in faint green smoke, tendrils curling around their soft sighs that Hawke hardly believed he heard.

When the last demon vanished in a calm wisp, Singer pumped her fist in the air, nose scrunching with the rest of her face as she hissed out, _“Yeee!”_ between her lower lip and the teeth that bit it.

Wiping her forehead with the back of a hand, Singer let out a bright, triumphant laugh. To the utterly _dumbfounded_ party, she said, “Spirits love disco.”

And she had the audacity to say it like that cleared everything all up.

After a moment of reeling silence, Anders’ voice cracked as he shouted, “What in the Maker-forsaken _fuck?”_


End file.
